Chapter 2 - THE FORGED SIGNATURE
I didn’t sit in the chair. I couldn’t. Thirty-two pairs of eyes were fixed on me, the housekeeper in a black-and-white uniform. I looked at Luca Moretti. His dark eyes were unreadable, but the silence in the room felt like a loaded weapon. “Sit,” he repeated softly. I slowly lowered myself into the velvet-cushioned seat beside him. Vanessa looked as if she had been slapped. “Luca, you cannot be serious,” she hissed, her manicured hands gripping the edge of the mahogany table. “You are going to take the word of a girl who scrubs our toilets over your future wife?” Luca didn’t look at her. He was waiting. The heavy dining room doors swung open. Marco walked in. He carried a leather portfolio. His hands were steady, but the exhaustion in his face had been replaced by something much more dangerous. Determination. He walked straight to the head of the table and placed the portfolio in front of Luca. “The original catering agreement,” Marco said quietly. He pulled out a crisp white document and laid it flat. “And the amendment authorizing the change to fifty guests, signed at four-fifteen this afternoon.” Luca looked down at the paper. The room held its breath. “This is your signature, Marco,” Luca said. Vanessa exhaled a sharp, triumphant laugh. “There! You see?” she cried, looking at the wealthy guests around the table. “He signed it. He approved the overage. Emma is lying, and Marco is trying to cover his tracks.” I stared at the paper. My heart pounded against my ribs. Had I misunderstood? Had I risked my job, my mother’s restaurant, and my father’s medical care for nothing? Marco didn’t flinch. He leaned forward and tapped the bottom of the page. “Look closer, Luca.” Luca traced the ink with his eyes. “The ‘M’ is looped differently,” Luca murmured. “Because I am left-handed,” Marco said. “I push the pen. This signature was pulled. The pressure is on the right side of the loops. I didn’t sign this.” Vanessa’s triumphant smile faltered. “Anyone can change their handwriting,” she snapped. Luca looked up at her. “Who handed you this document, Marco?” “Your fiancée’s assistant, David,” Marco replied. “He said Vanessa needed it filed immediately.” Luca’s voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. “Vanessa. Where is David?” “I sent him home,” she said quickly. “He wasn’t feeling well.” “Call him.” “Luca, please—” “Call him now.” Vanessa reached into her glittering silver clutch. Her hands were shaking. As she pulled out her phone, something else caught the edge of the fabric. It tumbled from the purse and hit the hardwood floor with a heavy metallic clink. It slid across the floor and stopped perfectly at the toe of my black work shoe. A small, tarnished silver locket. It looked entirely out of place among Vanessa’s diamonds and designer silk. I reached down and picked it up. The clasp was loose, and the impact had popped it open. Inside wasn’t a picture of Luca. It was a photograph of a little boy. He had dark curls, bright green eyes, and a small scar over his left eyebrow. He looked about six years old. Beside the boy’s picture was a folded scrap of paper. I recognized the handwriting immediately. It was the same slanted, right-handed cursive from the forged contract. Pay him by Friday, or I take Leo. Vanessa lunged forward, her elegance completely abandoned, and snatched the locket from my hand. “Don’t touch my things!” she shrieked. But Luca had seen it. He stood up. “Who is Leo?” Luca asked. Vanessa clamped the locket shut, her knuckles white. “Nobody. A nephew.” “You don’t have a nephew.” Luca stepped toward her. “Who signed that contract, Vanessa? And who are you paying?”
