Chapter 9 – THE LETTER ON THE PIANO

The ballroom was filled with the sound of quiet, joyful reunions, but the hallway was perfectly still.

I stared at the envelope on the piano keys.

My name was written in bold, masculine handwriting.

Hannah.

I picked it up. It felt heavy in my hands.

I broke the wax seal and opened the flap.

Inside was a one-way plane ticket to Rome, Italy, dated for midnight tonight.

And a single, folded sheet of paper.

Hannah,

If you’re reading this, then it’s over. Luca has his family back, and Vanessa will never hurt anyone again.

But I can’t stay here.

Every time I look at this house, I see the ghost of the boy I used to be, and the monster my father forced me to become.

I don’t belong in this life anymore.

But I wanted you to know that you are the bravest person I have ever met.

You saved Isabella. You saved Lily. You saved my brother’s soul.

And for a brief moment in that car, you made me feel like I could be saved, too.

Goodbye, Hannah.—Michael

My breath caught in my throat.

I looked up, scanning the empty hallway.

“Where did he go?” I asked out loud to no one.

Luca stepped out of the ballroom, his arm wrapped tightly around Isabella’s waist. He looked lighter than I had ever seen him.

But when he saw the paper in my hand, his smile faded.

“He left, didn’t he?” Luca asked quietly.

I nodded, fighting the sudden, sharp sting of tears.

“He’s taking a flight to Rome at midnight,” I whispered.

I glanced at the grandfather clock in the foyer.

It was 10:45 PM.

Luca walked over and placed a hand on my shoulder.

“My brother has spent his entire life running away from the things he loves, because he believes everything he touches gets destroyed,” Luca said softly.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of car keys.

He held them out to me.

“Don’t let him run this time, Hannah.”

I looked at the keys. Then I looked at my mother, who was sitting comfortably on the sofa inside, drinking warm tea and talking with Teresa.

My mother gave me a small, knowing nod.

I grabbed the keys.

I ran out the front doors, jumped into Luca’s fastest sports car, and tore down the driveway, the tires screaming against the wet asphalt.

The drive to O’Hare International Airport was a blur of neon lights and frantic lane changes.

I abandoned the car at the curb of the International Terminal, not caring if it got towed.

I sprinted through the sliding glass doors, my wet hair sticking to my face, my maid’s uniform stained with mud and soot.

People stared at me, but I didn’t care.

I checked the departure screens.

Rome – Flight 408 – Gate K12 – Boarding.

I ran through the massive terminal, dodging businessmen and families, my lungs burning with every breath.

I reached the security checkpoint and flashed my driver’s license, begging the TSA agent to let me through for a family emergency.

By some miracle, the agent took pity on me and rushed me through the metal detectors.

I sprinted down Concourse K.

K9… K10… K11…

I rounded the corner to Gate K12 just as the gate agent announced the final boarding call for Rome.

The waiting area was completely empty.

Except for one man.

Michael was sitting in the corner, a dark duffel bag at his feet.

His head was in his hands.

“Michael!” I yelled, my voice echoing across the terminal.

He jerked his head up.

When he saw me, his eyes widened in absolute shock.

He stood up slowly, looking at me as if I were a mirage.

“Hannah?” he breathed. “What are you doing here? You should be with your mother.”

I walked toward him, my chest heaving.

“You don’t get to leave,” I said, stopping a few feet away. “You don’t get to drop a letter on a piano and just vanish.”

Michael shook his head sadly.

“You don’t understand, Hannah. I carry too much darkness. I’ll only ruin the peace Luca finally found.”

“Luca didn’t find peace by himself!” I argued, stepping closer. “He found it because of you! You saved Isabella. You defied your father. You are a good man, Michael.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening.

“I’m not a good man,” he whispered.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a faded, dog-eared photograph.

He held it out to me.

“You think you know me, Hannah,” Michael said, his voice breaking. “But you don’t know who this is, do you?”

I took the photograph, and my heart completely stopped.

It was a picture of a young man in a mechanic’s uniform.

My father.