“Pawn ticket,” Luca read aloud, his voice devoid of emotion. “Dated three days before my wife died. Signed by Arturo Bellini. You bought her stolen jewelry to fund the sabotage of her car.”
Vanessa burst into tears. “I didn’t know! Luca, I swear to God, I didn’t know about Elena’s car! My father told me he bought the necklace from an estate sale!”
“Quiet,” Luca snapped. He turned his devastating gaze onto Arturo. “You killed the mother of my child to force a marriage and steal my shipping routes.”
Arturo stood tall, his arrogance finally cracking, replaced by a cornered desperation. “Your father ruined my business, Luca! It was owed to me. Elena was just in the way.”
Marco stepped forward, grabbing Arturo by the arms. The older man struggled, but it was useless.
Isabella buried her face in my apron, crying softly. I wrapped my arms around her, shielding her from the ugliness of the adults in the room.
“Take him to the basement,” Luca told Marco. “I will deal with him after I put my daughter to sleep.”
As Marco dragged a cursing Arturo down the hallway, Vanessa collapsed to her knees, sobbing. “Luca, forgive me. I just did what my father told me. I love you.”
Luca looked down at her with absolute disgust. “Pack your things. You have ten minutes before I have you thrown out onto the street.”
Vanessa scrambled up and ran from the room, her red dress trailing behind her like a stain.
The room was quiet again. Just Luca, Roberto, Isabella, and me.
Luca exhaled a long, shaking breath. He looked at Roberto. “Why did you come here tonight? Why wait two years to bring me this?”
Roberto’s expression softened. The cold, calculating businessman vanished, replaced by a profound, deep sorrow.
“Because I am not an investor, Mr. Moretti,” Roberto said softly. “My name is Roberto Ferraro. But my sister’s maiden name was Elena Ferraro.”
Luca stared at him, stunned.
Roberto looked down at Isabella with tears in his eyes. “I am Elena’s older brother. And I am Isabella’s uncle.”
Isabella peeked out from my apron. She looked at Roberto, then reached into her pocket again.
“Uncle Roberto?” she whispered.
Roberto nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks.
“Mommy said you would come,” Isabella said. Then she turned to me. “Emily, we have to show Daddy what we found in your room.”
My blood ran cold. “My room?”
I stared at the ten-year-old girl in shock.
“Isabella, sweetheart, what do you mean?” I asked, my voice trembling. “There’s nothing of your mother’s in my room.”
Isabella shook her head stubbornly. Her dark curls bounced. “Yes, there is. The music box. Mommy put it there.”
Luca’s intense gaze shifted to me. It wasn’t accusatory, but it was heavy with questions. “Emily? How long have you had this music box?”
“I… I bought it at a thrift store in Little Italy three months before I started working here,” I stammered, panic rising in my chest. “It was cheap. I just liked the tune. I keep it on my nightstand.”
Roberto stepped forward, his eyes sharp. “What tune does it play, Miss Carter?”
“Torna a Surriento,” I answered. “Return to Sorrento.”
Roberto closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. “Elena’s favorite lullaby. She didn’t put it in your room, Emily. She made sure you bought it.”
The room spun slightly. “That’s impossible. I didn’t even know the Moretti family then. My mother was sick, I needed a job…”
“Elena knew your mother,” Roberto said gently. “Your mother was a nurse at St. Jude’s, correct? She took care of Elena after her first miscarriage, before Isabella was born. Elena trusted her. When Elena knew she was in danger, she orchestrated things. She ensured the music box ended up at that specific shop, knowing your mother frequented it. She was laying a breadcrumb trail for people she trusted, far away from the Bellini family’s reach.”
Luca ran a hand through his dark hair, the pieces of his wife’s desperate final days falling into place. “Let’s go to your room, Emily.”
My room in the servant’s quarters was small but tidy. A twin bed, a small desk, and on the nightstand, the battered wooden music box with painted lemons on the lid.
Luca picked it up delicately. He wound the small brass key on the bottom. The tinny, melancholic notes of Torna a Surriento filled the cramped room.
Isabella reached out and tapped the wooden bottom twice.
Suddenly, the music stopped with a sharp click. The false bottom of the box dropped open into Luca’s palm.
Inside was a small USB flash drive.
“Smart girl,” Luca whispered to his daughter. He looked at me. “Do you have a laptop?”
