Chapter 3 – THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE COAT

The room spun.

My sister’s husband hadn’t just abandoned her because he was a deadbeat.

He was paid by the Laurent family.

But why? Why would a billionaire mafia family care about a struggling mother in the suburbs?

“Hand it over, Grace,” Bianca said.

I looked at the silver key.

Then I looked at Sebastian.

He didn’t demand I give it to him. He just watched me, his dark eyes filled with a sudden, profound sorrow.

“Don’t do it, Grace,” Florence whispered behind me. “If she opens that vault, it will destroy this entire city.”

I gripped the key tightly.

“I’m not giving you anything until I know my niece and nephew are safe.”

Bianca sighed, pulling a sleek phone from her clutch.

“Suit yourself.”

Before she could dial, the front double doors of the ballroom burst open.

My sister, Sarah, walked in.

She was out of breath, wearing her worn winter coat, holding her five-year-old son, Leo, by the hand.

“Grace!” Sarah yelled, scanning the crowd.

“Sarah! What are you doing here?” I screamed, running toward her.

Bianca’s guards moved to block me, but Sebastian raised his weapon, forcing them back.

I grabbed Sarah’s arm. “Are you crazy? You need to leave!”

“I couldn’t,” Sarah gasped. “Someone broke into our apartment twenty minutes ago. They tore the place apart looking for something.”

Bianca’s eyes flared with rage.

She glared at her two men. “I told you to secure the house, not trash it!”

“We didn’t find the envelope, boss,” one of the men grunted.

Sarah looked at me, terrified.

“They missed one thing, Grace. Leo hid it.”

Little Leo, clutching his worn teddy bear, reached into his tiny overall pocket.

He pulled out a faded Polaroid photograph.

“I found it in the lining of your old winter coat, Auntie Grace,” the little boy said sweetly.

I took the photograph.

My hands shook as I looked at it.

It was a picture of my father—a man who died when I was four.

But he wasn’t alone in the photo.

He was standing on a boat, smiling, with his arm wrapped around Florence.

And standing right in front of them, holding a silver key, was Sebastian’s mother.

Sebastian leaned over my shoulder.

He stared at the photo.

“Who is that man?” Sebastian asked, his voice shaking.

“That’s my father,” I whispered.

Sebastian looked at Florence, his face completely pale.

“Miss Flo… what is going on?”

Florence closed her eyes, tears spilling down her wrinkled cheeks.

“Your mother wasn’t going to leave your father for the Laurents, Sebastian. She was going to give the money to him.”

She pointed a shaking finger at the photo of my father.

“Because he was the true heir to the Vitale family.”

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