Chapter 5 – THE HOSPITAL WARD
The tires of Luca’s SUV screeched against the pavement as we pulled into the emergency bay of Philadelphia General.
Luca abandoned the vehicle, tossing the keys to a startled valet, and sprinted through the sliding glass doors. I stayed right behind him. The gold pocket watch and the confession felt like a bomb ticking in his coat pocket.
We found Eleanor in the intensive care unit. She looked terrifyingly small against the white hospital sheets, a web of monitors and IV lines keeping her tethered to the world.
Thomas Reed, the retired accountant, was sitting in a plastic chair outside her door. He looked up, his face gray.
“Her heart gave out,” Thomas said softly. “The stress of the evening. The doctors stabilized her, but they said her system is failing.”
Luca pushed past him into the room. He took his mother’s frail, cold hand.
“Mom. I’m here.”
Eleanor’s eyelids fluttered. She forced them open. When she saw Luca, a tear slipped down her wrinkled cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she rasped.
“Don’t talk,” Luca said, his voice thick. “Just rest.”
I stood near the door, feeling like an intruder. But as I watched them, a shadow shifted in the hallway.
Claire.
She was standing just outside the glass window, wearing a trench coat, watching Eleanor struggle to breathe. There was no pity in her eyes. Only satisfaction.
Luca saw her. He let go of his mother’s hand and marched into the hallway.
“You have five seconds to leave before I throw you through that window,” Luca snarled.
Claire didn’t back down. “I came to see if she finally confessed before she died.”
“Confessed to what?” Luca demanded.
Claire looked past him, locking eyes with me. “Hasn’t the maid told you yet? She found the envelope, didn’t she?”
Luca pulled the manila envelope from his jacket. He held up the confession letter.
“I know my father covered up my grandfather’s murder,” Luca said. “I know he paid your mother to keep quiet about it.”
Claire laughed. It was a cold, jagged sound in the quiet hospital corridor.
“You still don’t get it, do you, Luca?” Claire stepped closer. “Your father didn’t write that confession.”
She reached into her trench coat and pulled out a faded Polaroid photograph. She shoved it into Luca’s chest.
I leaned in to look.
The photo showed two young women laughing on a boat. One was clearly Claire’s mother. The other, wearing a bright summer dress and a brilliant smile, was Eleanor Venturi.
“They were best friends,” Claire whispered venomously. “Until your grandfather threatened to cut your father out of the family business because he wanted to legitimize the empire. Your father didn’t kill him.”
Luca stared at the photo. “Then who did?”
Claire pointed through the glass, straight at the fragile old woman in the hospital bed.
“She did,” Claire said. “Eleanor killed him to secure your father’s inheritance. My mother found out, and Eleanor framed her for embezzlement to force her out of the city.”
Luca stepped back, shaking his head. “No. My mother wouldn’t—”
“Check the signature on the confession,” Claire interrupted.
Luca unfolded the paper. He stared at the bottom line.
The signature didn’t belong to his father.
It read: Eleanor Venturi.
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