Chapter 3 – THE WOMAN IN THE ATTIC

The silver key clattered against the mahogany table.

Nobody breathed.

Luca stared at the key, then at Vanessa. His face was a mask of pure, terrifying shock.

“Upstairs?” Luca repeated.

“Room 4B,” Vanessa said, her voice eerily calm. “The door behind the old bookshelves. You never go up there. Nobody does.”

I looked at Antonio. The old man had stopped signing. He was staring at Vanessa in total disbelief.

He hadn’t known.

“You’ve been keeping my mother in my own house?” Luca’s voice was a dangerous whisper.

“Not me. My father,” Vanessa sneered. “And your grandfather knew she was alive. He just thought she was in the basement.”

Antonio signed frantically to me.

“He says he searched the basement for years,” I translated, my voice shaking. “He never found her. He thought Robert moved her.”

“We did,” Vanessa smiled cruelly. “Right under your nose.”

Luca grabbed the silver key. He didn’t say a word. He just turned and walked toward the grand staircase.

“Wait!” Vanessa called out. “If you open that door, Luca, the deal is broken. The Bellini family takes everything. That was the contract your father signed!”

Luca ignored her. He took the stairs two at a time.

I looked at Antonio. He was trying to stand, but his legs were too weak.

“I’ll help you,” I said, pulling his arm over my shoulder.

Together, the deaf grandfather and the maid followed the mafia boss up to the fourth floor.

The attic was dark, smelling of dust and old wood. Luca was already standing in front of a heavy oak door hidden behind a row of empty bookcases.

He slid the silver key into the lock. It turned with a heavy click.

Luca pushed the door open.

Inside, the room was surprisingly clean. There was a bed, a small window facing the gardens, and a painting easel.

Sitting in a chair by the window was a woman.

She had graying hair, tied back in a loose braid. She wore a simple white dress. When the door opened, she turned around.

She looked exactly like the old photographs of Isabella Moretti.

Luca dropped the key. It hit the floorboards with a dull thud.

“Mom?” he whispered.

The woman stood up. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Luca,” she said. Her voice was raspy from disuse, but gentle.

Luca ran to her. He collapsed to his knees, burying his face in her hands, sobbing like a child. Thirty years of grief shattered in a single second.

I stood in the doorway with Antonio, tears streaming down my own face.

But as Antonio looked at the woman, his body went entirely rigid.

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin like steel claws.

He pointed at the woman. His hands moved in sharp, violent slashes.

I gasped.

“Luca!” I screamed.

Luca looked back at me, his face streaked with tears.

“Emily, what?”

I looked at the woman, my blood running cold.

“Antonio says… that’s not your mother.”