Chapter 9 – THE GREENHOUSE AND THE GHOST

Two weeks had passed since the storm that shattered the Moretti mansion and destroyed the Bellini empire.

The estate was healing. The massive crystal chandelier in the foyer had been replaced by a temporary, elegant iron fixture. The shattered glass in the greenhouse had been meticulously repaired.

And I was no longer a maid.

I wore a simple, tailored navy-blue dress instead of a stiff white apron. My mother was thriving in the private recovery center, her color returning after years of painful dialysis.

Officially, Luca had named me the “Estate Archivist”—a title he invented to justify keeping me on the payroll with a staggering salary. But unofficially, I was Leo’s anchor.

And Luca’s shadow.

“He won’t eat his toast, Megan,” Margaret sighed, standing in the sunlit breakfast nook. She looked healthier, too, the dark circles under her eyes replaced by the warm glow of a woman who finally felt safe in her own home.

I looked down at the six-year-old boy sitting at the granite counter.

Leo was staring at his plate, pushing a triangle of dry toast around with his small finger. Around his neck, hanging on a thick leather cord, was his mother’s broken pocket watch.

“Hey, buddy,” I said softly, pulling up a stool beside him. “Not hungry today?”

Leo shook his head, his brown eyes fixed on the cracked glass of the watch. “The hands still aren’t moving, Megan. You said they just needed to rest.”

My heart squeezed. He wasn’t talking about the watch. He was talking about his mother.

Before I could answer, the heavy wooden doors of the kitchen swung open.

Luca walked in.

He was dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, preparing for a day of meetings to dismantle the final pieces of Don Bellini’s illegal businesses. But the moment he saw Leo’s slumped shoulders, his ruthless mafia persona vanished.

“Morning, piccolo,” Luca said, kissing the top of Leo’s head. He looked at me, his eyes lingering on my dress, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Morning, Megan.”

“Good morning,” I smiled, feeling that familiar, dangerous flutter in my chest whenever he looked at me like that.

“He’s worried about the watch,” I murmured to Luca, nodding toward the broken timepiece.

Luca’s expression softened. He pulled out the stool on Leo’s other side and sat down.

“Leo,” Luca said gently. “Do you know where my mother—your grandmother—used to go when she felt sad or broken?”

Leo looked up, curious. “Where?”

“The greenhouse,” Luca said. “She used to say that plants know how to start over, even when they’ve been cut down.”

Luca looked at me. “Megan, why don’t you take him out there today? Show him the orchids. I have back-to-back meetings, but I want him to get some fresh air.”

“Of course,” I nodded.

By noon, the Chicago sun was warm, filtering through the massive glass panels of the restored greenhouse. The air inside was thick, humid, and smelled of wet earth and jasmine.

Leo walked quietly beside me, his small hand gripping mine tightly. He was still wearing the pocket watch.

“Look at this one, Leo,” I said, pointing to a vibrant, blooming purple orchid. “It looks like a butterfly, doesn’t it?”

Leo stared at the flower, but his face remained blank. “Mommy liked yellow flowers.”

“Then we will plant yellow flowers,” I promised softly. “We can make a whole row just for her.”

Leo suddenly let go of my hand and walked deeper into the greenhouse, down a narrow dirt path lined with towering ferns.

“Leo, don’t go too far,” I called out, following him.

But as I turned the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Standing at the very back of the greenhouse, partially hidden by the dense foliage, was a man.

He wasn’t one of the gardeners. He wasn’t one of Marco’s security guards.

He was tall, wearing a faded gray trench coat, his face obscured by the shadows of the large palm leaves.

And Leo was walking right toward him.

“Leo, stop!” I yelled, my heart leaping into my throat.

The man stepped forward into the light.

He was holding a small, yellow flower.

“Megan?” the man said, his voice raspy and familiar.

I froze. The blood drained from my face.

It was Detective Miller. The cheap-suited cop who had tried to arrest me the night Vanessa planted the diamonds.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, pulling Leo behind my legs and scanning the greenhouse for a weapon. “The estate is locked down. How did you get past the gates?”

The detective held up his hands slowly, dropping the yellow flower.

“I didn’t come through the gates,” Miller said quietly. “I came through the old service tunnels near the river. I didn’t want Marco’s men to see me.”

“Why?” I snapped. “If you’re here to harass Luca again—”

“I’m not here for Moretti,” Miller interrupted, his eyes shifting nervously toward the glass walls, as if expecting a sniper to take him out.

He reached into his coat pocket. I tensed, ready to throw myself over Leo.

But Miller didn’t pull a gun.

He pulled out a thick, sealed manila envelope.

“I’m here for you, Miss Collins,” Miller said.

I stared at him, confused. “Me? Why?”

“Because Don Bellini isn’t just rotting in a cell,” Miller whispered, his voice trembling. “He’s talking. He’s making deals with the Feds to shorten his sentence. And he gave them a name.”

“A name of who?”

Miller looked down at Leo, then back at me.

“He gave them the name of the person who actually slipped the poison into Catherine Moretti’s IV ten years ago,” Miller said.

He tossed the envelope onto the potting table between us.

“It wasn’t a hitman,” Miller said, backing away toward the shadows. “It was a nurse. A nurse who owed Bellini a lot of money.”

I stared at the envelope. My stomach twisted into a violent knot.

“Why are you bringing this to me?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Miller stopped at the edge of the tunnel entrance. He looked at me with a mixture of pity and terror.

“Because, Megan,” the detective said softly. “The nurse’s name was Sarah Collins.”

My heart stopped.

Sarah Collins.

My mother.