Chapter 7 - THE GIRL IN THE FADED DRAWING
The faded crayon drawing felt impossibly heavy in my hands.
“To my big sister Valentina. Love, Sarah.”
I stared at the childish scrawl, a cold knot forming in my stomach. The Moretti family was famous in Chicago. There was Giovanni Moretti, the ruthless patriarch who died years ago. There was Luca, his heir. And there was Valentina.
There was never a Sarah.
I walked out of the ruined guest room and slowly made my way downstairs.
The foyer was a chaotic scene of federal agents, paramedics, and Luca’s loyal guards securing the perimeter. The grand chandelier was dark, but emergency floodlights illuminated the shattered glass and bullet-pitted walls.
Luca and Valentina were standing near the front doors, speaking quietly with a police captain. Valentina had finally draped a heavy coat over her ruined gown, her face pale but composed.
I walked directly up to them.
"Emily," Luca said, stepping away from the captain. "Are Rebecca and the baby ready for transport?"
"They're safe," I said softly.
I looked at Valentina. The woman who had treated me like dirt, who had delivered my nephew, who was now staring at me with exhausted eyes.
I held up the piece of paper.
"Who is Sarah?" I asked.
Valentina’s face drained of the little color it had left. She stared at the drawing, her breath catching in her throat.
Luca frowned, looking at the paper. "What is that?"
"I found it in the cedar chest upstairs," I said, my voice shaking. "It's signed 'To my big sister Valentina, from Sarah.'"
Luca turned to his sister. "Val? Did one of your cousins draw this?"
Valentina closed her eyes. A tear leaked out, cutting a clean line through the soot on her cheek.
"No," Valentina whispered.
"Then who is it?" Luca demanded.
Valentina opened her eyes and looked at her brother. The sheer weight of a thirty-year-old secret seemed to crush her posture.
"She was our sister, Luca," Valentina said, her voice cracking.
Luca froze. "What?"
"Before you were born," Valentina sobbed, the truth finally spilling out. "Dad had another daughter. Her name was Sarah. She was sweet, and gentle, and she hated the life. When she was seven years old, a rival gang tried to kidnap her to get to Dad. They failed, but she was badly hurt."
I felt the blood roaring in my ears.
"Dad realized this world would kill her," Valentina continued. "So he made a deal. He faked her death. He sent her away to a foster family in Indiana. He swore me to secrecy. He said if the Council ever found out she was alive, they would use her against us."
Luca looked as if he had been physically struck. "I had a sister? And you never told me?"
"I was protecting her!" Valentina cried. "I was protecting you! She grew up safe, far away from all this blood."
"Where is she now?" Luca asked, his voice thick with emotion.
Valentina shook her head. "I don't know. The foster family changed her last name. I haven't seen her in thirty years. I only kept the drawing."
I looked down at the drawing in my hands.
Then I looked up at Valentina.
"Mrs. Moretti," I whispered, my voice completely hollow.
She turned to me.
"My mother's name is Sarah," I said. "She grew up in Indiana."
The foyer went completely dead silent.
Valentina stared at me. Her eyes dropped to my face, tracing the shape of my jaw, the color of my eyes—features she had seen every day for eleven months without putting the pieces together.
"No," Valentina breathed, stumbling backward.
"She has a scar on her left shoulder," I said, tears filling my eyes. "From a car accident when she was seven. She said she couldn't remember it."
Luca stared at me, absolute shock washing over his features.
"Emily," Luca whispered. "You're my niece."
Valentina covered her mouth, a profound, agonizing sob tearing from her chest. The maid she had humiliated, the woman whose sister she had locked in a room, was her own flesh and blood.
Before anyone could say another word, the heavy double doors of the mansion were violently pushed open.
The police captain who had been standing outside stepped back nervously.
A tall, elderly man in an immaculate gray suit walked into the foyer. He was surrounded by four men in federal windbreakers.
But they weren't FBI agents.
They were the men from the photograph. The Chicago Syndicate Council.
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"It's a touching family reunion," the elderly man smiled, his voice like grinding stones. "But I'm afraid this house doesn't belong to the Morettis anymore."
TITLE: THE WARRANT AND THE WATCHDOG
