Chapter 2 – The Forged Goodbye

The velvet box slipped from Vanessa’s hands and clattered against the marble floor.

The silver pocket watch slid across the stone, stopping right at Frank Moretti’s wet leather shoes.

Frank didn’t even look down at it.

His weathered, calloused hands were trembling violently as he clutched the blue stationary. His face, normally warm and full of quiet strength, was gray with heartbreak.

“Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, stepping forward. “Please, come inside out of the rain.”

He didn’t move.

“I don’t want to come in,” Frank said, his voice cracking. “I just want to know why my granddaughter hates me.”

Luca appeared in the archway of the dining room.

When he saw his father standing in the rain, the powerful mafia boss looked like he had been physically struck.

“Dad?” Luca breathed.

He crossed the foyer in three long strides, ignoring Vanessa completely. He reached out to pull his father out of the storm, but Frank took a step back.

“Don’t,” Frank said.

He held up the crumpled blue paper.

“A courier dropped this off at my shop an hour ago. It’s written on your heavy stationary, Luca. With Clara’s silver pen.”

Luca frowned, water dripping from his father’s coat onto his expensive suit. “What are you talking about?”

Frank’s eyes filled with tears.

“It says she doesn’t want me at the dinner. It says she’s tired of smelling sawdust on my clothes. It says…” The old man choked on a sob. “…it says she wishes I wasn’t her grandfather anymore.”

Silence slammed into the foyer like a physical weight.

From the archway, little Clara gasped.

She ran forward, her yellow dress swishing around her knees.

“Grandpa! No!”

She tried to throw her arms around him, but Frank gently caught her shoulders, looking at her with shattered eyes.

“Did you write it, Clara?” he asked softly. “You can tell me the truth. I won’t be mad. I know I’m not fancy like these people.”

Clara shook her head frantically. “I didn’t! I swear, Grandpa! I was waiting for you! I even painted a blue star on my bridge for luck, just like you taught me!”

Luca gently took the wet letter from his father’s hands.

He read it once.

Then he read it again.

His eyes darkened to a terrifying, deadly pitch.

He didn’t look at Clara. He didn’t look at his father.

He slowly turned his head to look at Vanessa.

She was pressed against the wall, her face bloodless.

“This is Clara’s handwriting,” Luca said, his voice dangerously soft. “But Clara didn’t write it.”

Vanessa swallowed. “Luca, I have no idea—”

“I know this handwriting,” Luca interrupted, taking a step toward her. “Because I’ve seen it before. On the practice sheets from Clara’s calligraphy tutor.”

He held the letter up.

“You traced her handwriting.”

Vanessa’s chest heaved. “You’re insane. Why would I do that?”

“Because,” I spoke up.

My voice shook, but I couldn’t stop myself. My father had raised me to stand up to bullies, even if they wore designer silk.

Everyone looked at me.

I pointed to the floor. “She didn’t just forge the letter, Mr. Moretti. Look.”

Frank finally looked down.

His breath hitched.

He reached down with a trembling hand and picked up the cracked silver pocket watch.

“My father’s watch,” Frank whispered. “I’ve been looking for it for weeks.”

Luca looked at the velvet box near Vanessa’s designer heels.

“She was going to throw it away,” I said quietly. “Her nephew stole it, and she hid it.”

Vanessa sneered at me. “You little liar! You’re the maid! You probably stole it to sell it to pay off your pathetic father’s mortgage!”

Luca didn’t shout.

He just looked at Vanessa with a cold, terrifying emptiness.

“Get out of my house,” Luca said. “Before I forget that my daughter is watching.”

Vanessa grabbed her bag. She glared at Luca, then at Frank, and finally at me.

“You think you’ve won?” she hissed at me. “You think you can just play the hero? You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

She slammed the heavy oak door behind her.

The foyer fell silent, except for the sound of the rain against the glass.

Luca turned to his father. He gently put his arms around the old man, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” Luca whispered.

Frank closed his eyes, hugging his son back. Then he looked down at Clara, who was hugging his wet legs, crying into his coat.

“I’m sorry, little bird,” Frank murmured, stroking her hair. “I should have known you’d never write those cruel things.”

Clara looked up. “Did you bring your new jacket?”

Frank smiled, a sad, broken thing. “I wore it in the rain. It’s ruined now.”

“It’s beautiful,” Clara said fiercely.

I felt a tear slip down my cheek. I turned to go back to the kitchen, to give them privacy.

But as I turned, Frank spoke again.

“Luca.”

“Yes, Dad?”

Frank looked at me. His expression was suddenly very serious, very afraid.

“I didn’t just come here because of the letter.”

Luca frowned. “What do you mean?”

Frank pulled a thick, brown envelope from his inside pocket. It was dry.

“I came because a man showed up at my shop twenty minutes ago,” Frank said heavily. “He gave me this. He said if I didn’t get Clara out of this house tonight, he was going to the police.”

Luca’s posture shifted instantly into the mafia boss Chicago feared.

“What man?” Luca demanded. “What’s in the envelope?”

Frank handed it to his son.

“Photographs,” Frank whispered. “Of Hannah.”

My heart stopped.

Luca tore open the envelope.

Several 8×10 glossy photos spilled into his hands.

I caught a glimpse of one before Luca covered it.

It was a picture of me, standing in the estate’s garden yesterday.

But I wasn’t alone.

I was handing a large, thick stack of cash to a man in a dark hoodie. A man holding a gun.

And right behind me, sitting on the grass, was Clara.

“Miss Hannah?” Clara whispered, looking at my terrified face.

Luca slowly looked up from the photos.

His eyes were entirely different now. They were the eyes of a man who killed for a living.

“Hannah,” Luca said softly. “Who is the man in this picture? And why are you paying him while my daughter is ten feet away?”

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