Chapter 3 - The Burned Train Ticket
The ballroom erupted into a chaotic murmur. Guests pushed their chairs back, whispering frantically, watching the most powerful man in Chicago unravel in real time.
Luca didn't seem to hear them. He didn't seem to hear anything at all.
He stared at the heavy silver pocket watch in his palm.
“Elena is dead,” Luca breathed, the words tearing out of his throat like shattered glass.
“No!” Vanessa blurted out, her voice pitching into a hysterical shriek. “No, Luca, she isn't dead! I swear to God she isn't dead!”
Luca’s head snapped up. His dark eyes were completely empty, stripped of all mercy.
“Then how do you have the watch, Vanessa?” he asked, stepping toward her. “Elena swore on her mother’s grave she would never part with this unless her life was over. Did you take it from her? Did you hurt her?”
“I bought it from her!” Vanessa cried, backing against the heavy oak doors. “Four years ago! She came to me! She said she needed a million dollars in untraceable cash, or she was going to ruin my family's business by exposing my father's offshore accounts!”
I frowned. That didn't make any sense.
I was just a maid, but I had cleaned Luca’s private study for a year. I had dusted the framed photographs of Elena. The woman in those pictures had kind, gentle eyes. She had run a charity for homeless children. She wasn't an extortionist.
“You're lying,” Mara said, stepping forward. “Elena would never blackmail anyone.”
“She was pregnant and desperate!” Vanessa shot back. “She gave me the watch as collateral to prove she was leaving for good! I paid her, and she left! That’s all I know!”
Luca’s jaw locked. He looked at the two security guards.
“Take her to the basement,” Luca ordered.
Vanessa screamed as the men grabbed her arms. “You can't do this to me! My family will destroy you!”
“Your family is nothing,” Luca said coldly. “Lock her in the cellar. Take her phone. No one comes in or out of this estate tonight.”
The doors opened, and Vanessa was dragged screaming into the hallway.
Luca turned to the stunned guests in the ballroom.
“Dinner is over,” he announced. “Get out of my house.”
Within ten minutes, the grand ballroom was entirely empty, save for Luca, Mara, and me. The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of the rain lashing against the massive windows.
I stood awkwardly near the head table, my uniform still clinging wetly to my skin, smelling sharply of expensive champagne. I quietly reached for a towel to start cleaning up the spilled drinks.
“Stop,” Luca said.
I froze. “Sir?”
He walked over to me. For the first time all evening, he truly looked at me. Not as staff, but as a person.
“You stood up to Vanessa,” he said quietly. “You risked your job to protect my sister’s sobriety.”
“It was the right thing to do, Mr. Moretti.”
“You don't need to call me Mr. Moretti,” he said, his exhaustion finally showing. “My name is Luca. And I need your help, Claire.”
My heart skipped a beat. “My help?”
He looked down at the tiny blue winter coat still resting on the table.
“Mara is right. Elena wouldn't blackmail anyone. Vanessa is lying to cover her tracks. But if Elena left that coat at Mara’s apartment... there has to be a clue. Somewhere.”
He turned to his sister. “Mara, when she dropped the coat, did she leave anything else? A bag? A purse?”
Mara shook her head, wiping her eyes. “No. Just the coat. I’ve kept it in my closet for four years. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away.”
“Go get it,” Luca said to me. “Please.”
I nodded and ran upstairs to Mara’s suite. I found the closet, grabbed the shopping bag, and hurried back down.
Luca took the tiny coat from my hands. He sat at the empty head table, spreading the small garment flat against the white linen. He checked the pockets. Empty. He checked the lining. Nothing.
He let out a heavy sigh, burying his face in his hands. “She’s gone. My son is out there, and I don't even know his name.”
I looked closely at the coat. My mother had been a seamstress before she got sick. I knew how garments were made. I knew where things could be hidden.
“Luca,” I said softly, surprising myself by using his first name.
He looked up.
“May I?” I asked, gesturing to the coat.
He nodded, sliding it toward me.
I ran my fingers along the inside collar. Then, I felt down the left sleeve. Near the tiny cuff, the fabric felt unusually stiff. I pressed my thumbnail against the seam.
“There’s a false stitch here,” I said.
Luca stood up immediately. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, sleek pocketknife. He handed it to me.
With trembling hands, I carefully sliced the thread.
I reached two fingers into the small gap in the lining and pulled out a tightly folded piece of heavy paper. It was singed at the edges, as if someone had tried to burn it but had pulled it from the fire at the last second.
I unfolded it on the table.
It was a train ticket.
Dated four years ago. The exact night Elena disappeared.
The destination was a small, remote town in the Appalachian Mountains.
But it was the name printed on the passenger line that made the blood drain entirely from Luca’s face.
It didn't say Elena Moretti.
It said Dominic Bellini.
May you like
Vanessa’s older brother.
TITLE: The Photograph in the Cabin
