Chapter 2 – THE SILVER KEY ON THE TABLE

The crystal chandeliers seemed to dim as Mrs. Whitmore’s words echoed through the dining room.

I gripped the edge of my serving tray, my knuckles turning white.

Bianca had known who I was? She had brought me here on purpose?

For eleven months, she had treated me like dirt beneath her designer shoes. She had forced me to scrub floors on my hands and knees, criticized my appearance, and threatened my job weekly.

All while knowing I was Matteo’s sister.

Matteo stepped away from his chair, his eyes locked on his fiancée.

“Give me the letter,” he demanded, his voice dangerously low.

Bianca lunged forward, her manicured hands snatching at the folded paper on the tablecloth. “Matteo, please! This old woman is lying. She’s trying to extort us!”

But Matteo was faster. He caught Bianca’s wrist, firmly prying the paper from her fingers.

The guests were completely silent. Nobody dared to breathe.

Matteo unfolded the letter. I watched his dark eyes scan the page, taking in Mrs. Whitmore’s elegant handwriting.

Then, his gaze dropped to the bottom of the page.

The handwritten note. Bianca’s handwriting.

“You offered her money,” Matteo whispered, reading the note aloud. “‘Take the hundred thousand and stay in Florida. If you ever come to Boston, I will ensure Emily goes to prison for theft.’”

My stomach plummeted. Prison?

Matteo looked up, his jaw clenched so tightly I thought it might snap. “You threatened to frame my sister for theft?”

“I was protecting our future!” Bianca cried, her perfectly styled composure finally shattering. “Your mother’s will was completely insane, Matteo! You know it was!”

“My mother’s will stated that the family estate in Sicily could only be unlocked by her two living heirs,” Matteo said coldly.

“Yes! And your father told you the second heir was dead!” Bianca screamed. “But I found out the truth! I found out the baby lived. I found out she was working in a miserable little diner in South Boston!”

She pointed a shaking finger at me.

“I brought her here! I gave her a job! If I hadn’t, you would have lost the estate forever when the deadline passed next month!”

Mrs. Whitmore stood up, leaning heavily on her cane.

“You didn’t bring her here to help Matteo,” the elderly woman said fiercely. “You brought her here because you needed to find the object Margaret left for her daughter. You couldn’t claim the estate without it.”

Bianca’s face drained of color.

“The silver key,” Mrs. Whitmore continued, turning to me. “Emily, did your adoptive mother ever give you a small silver key? One with a heavy, unpolished handle?”

My breath caught in my throat.

Yes. I had a key exactly like that. I kept it on a string in my bedroom downstairs. It was the only thing I had left of the woman who raised me.

But before I could speak, Bianca reached into the pocket of her champagne silk gown.

She pulled out something small and metallic, dropping it onto the fine bone china plate in front of her.

Clink.

It was my silver key.

“How did you get that?” I gasped, stepping forward. “That was in my room!”

Bianca sneered, recovering some of her venom. “You’re a maid, Emily. Did you really think you had privacy in my house?”

Matteo stared at the key, then at Bianca. The disgust in his eyes was absolute.

But Bianca just tilted her chin up, a desperate, cruel smile forming on her lips.

“Go ahead, Matteo. Hate me,” she spat. “But before you cancel this wedding, you should ask Mrs. Whitmore the rest of the story. Ask her why your precious mother had to hide her baby in the first place.”

Mrs. Whitmore swayed slightly, clutching the mahogany chair.

Bianca turned toward the hallway. “Leo! Come here, sweetheart!”

Footsteps padded against the hardwood floor.

A little boy, no older than six, peeked his head around the doorframe. He had Matteo’s dark hair and large, curious brown eyes. He was holding something small and brass in his hands.

“Bianca?” Leo asked softly. “I found the shiny clock you told me to get.”

My heart stopped.

It wasn’t a clock. It was an antique pocket watch. And it was playing a soft, tinkling lullaby.

The exact same lullaby my adoptive mother used to sing me to sleep.

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