Chapter 9 – THE MAN IN THE BLACK CAR

The morning sun broke through the heavy clouds, casting a bright, golden light over the Moretti estate.

The mansion, which had felt like a battlefield just hours before, was quiet and peaceful.

I walked down the grand staircase, no longer wearing my black maid’s uniform. I wore a simple cream sweater and jeans. It felt strange to walk these halls without a dusting cloth in my hand, but Luca had been adamant.

I was family now.

When I reached the first floor, I heard the soft sound of laughter coming from the kitchen.

I walked in to find Teresa and Mia sitting at the massive island.

They were covered in flour.

“Hannah!” Mia called out, her face lighting up with a bright smile.

She looked entirely different from the terrified girl in the rain last night. She was wearing one of Luca’s oversized sweatshirts, and the heavy sadness in her eyes had been replaced by a tentative, blossoming joy.

“Good morning,” I smiled, walking over. “What are you two doing?”

“We’re making peach cobbler,” Teresa said proudly, her hands expertly kneading a ball of dough. “Mia wanted to learn her grandfather’s recipe.”

My heart swelled.

Teresa had her granddaughter. The legacy of the blue dish was living on, unbroken.

“Where is Luca?” I asked.

“He’s in his study with Enzo,” Teresa said, her smile fading slightly. “Cleaning up the mess from last night.”

I nodded, knowing exactly what she meant.

The Bellini family had backed down, but Luca was a man who tied up loose ends.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and walked toward the back patio doors to get some fresh air.

As I opened the glass doors and stepped out into the crisp morning air, I noticed something strange.

A sleek, unmarked black car was parked at the edge of the estate’s massive garden, near the tree line.

The engine was running quietly.

I frowned. Enzo’s men always drove SUVs, and they never parked on the grass.

I set my coffee mug down on the patio table and walked slowly across the manicured lawn toward the car.

As I got closer, the tinted driver’s side window slowly rolled down.

The man sitting inside was older, perhaps in his late sixties. He wore a sharp, tailored grey suit and a fedora. His face was weathered, marked by deep lines of grief and a lifetime of hard decisions.

He looked at me with piercing blue eyes.

“Are you Hannah Collins?” he asked. His voice was gravelly, carrying a thick East Coast accent.

“Who are you?” I demanded, crossing my arms, trying not to show my fear.

The man didn’t answer immediately. He looked past me, staring at the massive stone walls of the Moretti mansion.

“I heard Marco Moretti is dead,” the man said quietly.

I stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man gave a small, humorless chuckle.

“You’re loyal. Just like your mother.”

He reached into his jacket pocket. I braced myself to run, but he didn’t pull out a weapon.

He pulled out a thick manila envelope and held it out the window.

“Give this to Luca,” the man said.

“I’m not taking anything from you until you tell me who you are,” I said firmly.

The man looked at me, a profound sadness softening his sharp features.

“My name is Don Bellini,” he said.

My blood ran cold.

Vanessa’s father.

The boss of the rival mafia family. The man who had threatened Mia’s life last night.

I took a step back, my heart pounding.

“Where are the guards?” I panicked, looking toward the gates.

“They’re at the gates,” Bellini said calmly. “I know how to slip past security. I’ve been doing it longer than Luca’s been alive.”

He held the envelope out further.

“Take it, Hannah. It’s not a bomb. It’s the truth.”

“The truth about what?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“About why my daughter hated Clara so much,” Bellini whispered.

I hesitated, then stepped forward and snatched the envelope from his hand.

“Vanessa is in federal custody,” Bellini said, looking straight ahead. “I didn’t bail her out. I’m letting her rot.”

I was shocked. “She’s your daughter.”

“She’s a monster,” Bellini corrected, his voice cracking with sudden, raw emotion. “She lied to me, Hannah. For ten years, she lied to me.”

He rolled the window up halfway.

“Tell Luca the war is over. The Bellini family is leaving Chicago.”

Before I could say another word, the black car reversed smoothly, turned around, and disappeared silently into the trees, heading toward a private exit I didn’t even know existed.

I stood in the wet grass, staring at the manila envelope in my hands.

I ran back to the house, threw the patio doors open, and sprinted straight to Luca’s study.

I didn’t knock. I burst through the heavy mahogany doors.

Luca and Enzo were leaning over a map of the city. They both snapped their heads up, Enzo instinctively reaching for the gun at his hip.

“Hannah?” Luca asked, immediately walking around the desk toward me. “What’s wrong?”

I was out of breath. I held up the envelope.

“Don Bellini was just in the garden,” I gasped.

Enzo cursed loudly and sprinted out of the room, yelling into his radio to lock down the perimeter.

Luca grabbed my shoulders, checking me over frantically. “Did he hurt you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, pushing the envelope into his chest. “He didn’t try to hurt me. He just gave me this. He said he’s leaving Chicago. He said Vanessa lied to him for ten years.”

Luca stared at the envelope.

He took it and walked over to his desk. He grabbed a silver letter opener and sliced the top open.

He pulled out a stack of medical records.

And a single, glossy photograph.

Luca stared at the photograph, his face draining of all color.

He dropped heavily into his leather desk chair, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Luca?” I asked, walking around the desk. “What is it?”

I looked at the photograph on the desk.

It was a picture of Vanessa, standing next to a beautiful young woman with dark hair.

Clara.

They looked like they were in their early twenties. They were smiling, their arms wrapped around each other in a tight, affectionate hug.

But it wasn’t the hug that made my breath catch.

It was the little girl standing in front of them.

Mia. As a toddler.

I looked at the medical records scattered on the desk.

They were DNA test results.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, reading the names on the paper.

Vanessa didn’t hunt Clara down ten years ago because of the mafia war.

Vanessa hunted her down because Vanessa was Mia’s mother.