Chapter 5 – The Child’s Drawing
The hospital room started spinning.
Julian DeLuca. Your father.
“Julian?” I choked out, gripping the bedrail to keep from collapsing. “You told me my father was a mechanic who died of cancer before I was born.”
“He was a DeLuca, Claire,” my mother said, her voice shaking. “He wanted to leave the family business. He wanted a normal life with me and Maya. But you don’t just leave a mafia family. They cut his brakes. He died in the crash. Maya died, too. I was the only one who survived. I was pregnant with you.”
“Roman’s brother?” I couldn’t process it. “I’m a DeLuca?”
“You can never tell Roman,” she begged, grabbing my hand with surprising strength. “Roman thought Julian abandoned them. If Victoria finds out you know the truth, she will finish what she started twenty years ago.”
I drove back to the estate in a daze. The sun was just beginning to rise over the massive wrought-iron gates. I was the niece of the man whose floors I scrubbed.
When I entered the kitchen, the house was already awake.
“Claire, thank god,” Maria, the head housekeeper, rushed toward me. “Mr. DeLuca has been asking for you.”
“For me?”
“He wants you in the conservatory. Now.”
I smoothed my apron, my heart hammering against my ribs. Did he know I had left the house?
I walked to the glass-enclosed conservatory at the back of the mansion. Roman was standing by the orchids, looking out at the lake. But he wasn’t alone.
Sitting on a small bench, swinging his legs, was a little boy. He looked about seven years old, with dark messy hair and serious eyes.
“Claire,” Roman said, turning around. He looked exhausted. “This is Leo. My nephew.”
Julian’s son? No, my mother said Julian died before I was born.
“He’s Victoria’s son,” Roman explained quietly, seeing my confusion. “From a previous marriage. But Victoria… left in a hurry last night. She didn’t take him.”
My blood boiled. Victoria had abandoned her own child to flee a murder investigation.
“I need you to watch him today,” Roman said. “The rest of the staff is busy, and Eleanor is resting. Just keep him occupied.”
“Of course, sir.”
Roman walked out, leaving me alone with the boy.
Leo didn’t speak. He just sat there, clutching a green crayon and a piece of paper.
“Hi, Leo,” I said gently, crouching down to his eye level. “I’m Claire. Do you like drawing?”
He nodded slowly, not looking up.
“What are you drawing?”
He turned the paper around.
It was a crude, childlike sketch of a bedroom. A woman with dark hair was lying in a bed. Standing next to the bed was another woman, with yellow hair—Victoria.
But it wasn’t the women that caught my attention.
It was what Victoria was holding in the drawing. It was a very specific, detailed drawing of a blue teacup with gold trim.
“Leo,” I whispered, my heart racing. “Where did you see this cup?”
Leo finally looked at me. “Mommy made special tea in it. For the sick lady.”
He was there. This seven-year-old boy had witnessed his mother poisoning Isabella.
“Do you know where that cup is now?” I asked.
Leo pointed toward the hallway. “In the basement. In the locked room.”
I stood up, taking his hand. “Show me.”
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