Chapter 9 – THE SECRET IN THE ENVELOPE

I stared at my name written in Frank Moretti’s handwriting.

“For me?” I whispered, my voice barely working. “Why would your father leave something for me? I was just the maid.”

Luca shook his head slowly. “My father never did anything without a reason. Open it.”

My hands trembled as I slid my finger under the brittle seal of the envelope. It tore open easily, releasing the faint smell of old paper and tobacco smoke—the signature scent of Frank’s office.

Inside were two items.

The first was a vintage train ticket, dated forty years ago, for a journey from Naples, Italy, to Rome. It was punched twice, meaning two people had traveled on it.

The second was a thick, legal document, folded into thirds, bearing the official seal of the Italian government.

I unfolded the document carefully.

The text was in Italian, but the English translation was stapled to the back.

It was a deed.

A property deed to a massive, functioning vineyard in Tuscany, Italy.

I scanned the document, my eyes widening as I reached the bottom line, where the ownership was transferred.

It wasn’t transferred to the Moretti family.

It was transferred to a man named Arthur Collins.

My father.

“I don’t understand,” I gasped, looking up at Luca. “My father was a mechanic. He died when I was twelve. Why is his name on a deed to an Italian vineyard?”

My mother, Clara, walked into the kitchen, carrying empty coffee cups from the living room.

She saw the deed in my hand and stopped dead in her tracks.

The cups rattled in her hands.

“Where did you find that?” my mother asked, her voice tight with panic.

“In Frank’s floorboards,” Luca said, watching Clara closely. “Clara, what is this? Why did my father leave Hannah a vineyard?”

My mother set the cups down on the counter, her hands shaking. She looked at me, her eyes filled with a grief I hadn’t seen since the day my father died.

“Because Frank owed him his life,” my mother whispered.

I shook my head, desperately trying to make sense of the collision between my normal childhood and the mafia world I was currently standing in.

“Mom, Dad was a mechanic in the suburbs,” I argued. “He fixed minivans. He didn’t know the Morettis.”

“He knew Frank before Frank was a boss,” my mother said softly, walking over to me. “Forty years ago, your father and Frank were just two poor kids from Naples trying to survive. They came to America together.”

She touched the vintage train ticket resting on the counter.

“They got mixed up with the wrong people early on,” my mother continued, tears welling in her eyes. “A rival gang cornered Frank in an alley on the South Side. They were going to kill him. Your father stepped in front of the gun.”

My breath hitched. “Dad took a bullet for Frank?”

“He took three,” my mother said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “He survived, but it destroyed his health. It’s why his heart failed when you were twelve. The damage was done forty years ago.”

I covered my mouth, the memory of my father’s sudden heart attack flashing behind my eyes.

“Frank never forgot,” my mother said. “When Frank finally made his money, he bought that vineyard in Tuscany. It was supposed to be a safe haven. He put it in your father’s name so the cartel could never touch it.”

She looked at the deed in my hands.

“Frank promised your father that if anything ever happened to us, you would always have a place to go. You are the sole heir to that estate, Hannah. You own it.”

I stared at the paper, completely overwhelmed. I wasn’t just a maid who had stumbled into a mob war. My existence in this house was the result of a forty-year-old blood debt.

“He watched over you your whole life,” Luca said quietly, awe in his voice as he realized the depth of his father’s loyalty. “That’s why he hired you. That’s why he helped your mother fake her death. He was protecting the daughter of the man who saved him.”

I looked out the window at Teresa, still swaying gently with George on the patio. Frank had built an empire of violence, but beneath it all, he was fiercely, aggressively loyal to the people he loved.

A heavy, sudden knock on the front door shattered the quiet moment.

We all froze.

Luca instinctively moved his hand toward his waist, where his gun used to be. But he wasn’t armed today. We were supposed to be safe.

The knock came again. Three sharp, authoritative raps.

“Stay here,” Luca ordered softly.

He walked slowly toward the front door, his broad shoulders tensed.

He looked through the peephole.

He didn’t relax. Instead, his brow furrowed in confusion.

He unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Standing on the porch was a man in an impeccably tailored, charcoal-gray Italian suit. He held a sleek leather briefcase.

“Mr. Moretti,” the man said, his accent thick and distinctly European. “My apologies for the intrusion on a Sunday.”

“Who are you?” Luca demanded, blocking the doorway with his body.

The man smiled politely, though his eyes were sharp and calculating.

“My name is Matteo Rossi,” the man said, offering a business card. “I am a solicitor from Florence, Italy.”

Luca didn’t take the card. “I don’t do business in Florence anymore.”

“I am not here for you, Mr. Moretti,” Rossi said smoothly.

The man looked past Luca’s shoulder, his eyes scanning the hallway until they landed directly on me, standing in the kitchen.

“I am here for Miss Hannah Collins,” Rossi said.

My stomach plummeted.

Rossi lifted his leather briefcase slightly.

“Miss Collins,” the lawyer called out, “I have been instructed to inform you that your vineyard in Tuscany is currently being occupied. And the people occupying it have requested your immediate presence.”