Chapter 2 – THE DEMOLITION CREW
I turned to face Luca, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He stepped out of the shadows, his dark eyes fixed on the back door where Vanessa had just disappeared.
“Hannah,” he repeated, his voice low. “What did she take?”
I thought about my mother. I thought about the rent I could barely afford. But then I remembered Walter’s tears, and the cruel way Vanessa had tossed that cake into the trash.
“A key,” I whispered. “An old, rusted iron key. It was hidden in Walter’s tin. The tag said ‘Floorboards. 1998.'”
Luca’s face went completely pale.
For a man who controlled a multi-million-dollar empire, he suddenly looked as though all the air had been punched out of his lungs.
“1998,” Luca repeated. “The year my mother died.”
He didn’t ask another question. He grabbed his coat from the kitchen chair and bolted out the door into the cool night air.
I ran after him, my sensible work shoes crunching on the gravel. “Mr. Moretti, wait!”
He didn’t stop. He headed straight for the dark tree line that separated the main estate from the south gardens.
“Go back inside, Hannah,” he ordered without looking back. “This isn’t safe for you.”
“Vanessa threatened my mother,” I blurted out. “She said her father is looking for whatever that key opens. If they hurt Walter…”
Luca finally stopped. He turned to look at me, the moonlight catching the hard angles of his face. He realized I was just as trapped in this as he was.
“Stay behind me,” he commanded.
We hurried through the manicured gardens, the smell of blooming night jasmine heavy in the air. As we approached the small clearing where Walter and Rosie’s cottage stood, my stomach dropped.
There were two black SUVs parked on the grass.
Their headlights were off, but the engines were idling.
“Daniel was supposed to drive Walter home,” Luca whispered, crouching behind a thick oak tree.
But Daniel’s car wasn’t there.
Instead, the front door of the cottage was wide open. The wooden swing on the porch was smashed to pieces.
And from inside, we heard the sound of wood being torn apart.
Luca pulled a sleek black pistol from his shoulder holster. He didn’t hesitate. He moved up the porch steps like a ghost and stepped into the living room. I stayed close behind him, terrified.
The cottage was destroyed.
The floral sofa was slashed. The small bookshelf was toppled. Two large men in dark jackets were tearing up the wooden floorboards with pry bars.
Vanessa stood in the center of the room, holding the rusted iron key.
“Tear it all up,” she ordered the men. “My father said it’s buried beneath the fireplace.”
“Vanessa,” Luca said.
The men froze. Vanessa spun around, dropping the key in shock.
Luca had his gun aimed directly at the chest of the larger man. “Drop the pry bars. Now.”
The men slowly lowered their tools.
“Luca,” Vanessa stammered, her face white. “I… I can explain.”
“Where is Walter?” Luca demanded, stepping over a shattered vase. “Where is Rosie?”
Before Vanessa could answer, a small, trembling voice echoed from the hallway.
“Sal? Is that you, Sal?”
I watched as an elderly woman shuffled into the light. She wore a beautiful, vintage blue dress, buttoned perfectly up to the collar. Her silver hair was neatly curled.
It was Rosie.
But she wasn’t looking at Luca. She was looking right through him.
“Sal,” Rosie smiled softly, using the name of Luca’s late father, Salvatore Moretti. “I kept it safe, just like you asked.”
Luca lowered his gun slightly. “Rosie… it’s Luca. Where is Walter?”
Rosie tilted her head, her eyes clouded with the tragic fog of Alzheimer’s.
Then she raised her hands.
She was holding a massive, double-barreled shotgun, aiming it directly at Vanessa’s chest.
“He told me not to let the thieves take the baby’s blanket,” Rosie said sweetly, pulling back the hammer with a sharp click. “And I always keep my promises.”
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