Chapter 4 – The Pages She Hid

Vanessa stared at Luca.

Then she looked toward Michael.

“I knew about the notebook because your brother told me.”

Michael’s head snapped up.

“Vanessa.”

She ignored him.

“He said Teresa had been asking questions about old financial records. He wanted me to check whether the study had been cleared before the wedding.”

Luca looked at his brother.

“Cleared of what?”

“Old papers,” Michael answered.

“Why would that matter?”

“Because the decorators are using Dad’s study for storage.”

Luca stared at him.

“You were worried about a notebook because decorators might move it?”

Michael spread his hands.

“You’re making everything sound suspicious.”

Vanessa pulled out a chair.

“Actually, Michael, I think we need to stop pretending this was all about the decorators.”

He turned sharply.

“Don’t.”

She looked at him.

“I’m not taking responsibility for decisions you made before I was part of this family.”

The admission surprised me.

Luca watched them both.

“What decisions?”

Vanessa crossed her arms.

“Michael said Teresa had become fixated on things from Antonio’s last months. He said she was getting upset every time she found an old bill or bank statement.”

“She wasn’t fixated,” Teresa whispered.

Vanessa’s expression softened, but only slightly.

“That’s what I was told.”

Luca looked toward me.

“Hannah, could you take Mom upstairs? I’ll come in a few minutes.”

Teresa immediately gripped my wrist.

“No.”

He turned back.

“Mom?”

“I want to stay.”

Her voice was quiet but firm.

Luca hesitated.

Then he nodded.

“Of course.”

I could have hugged him for that.

For weeks, everyone had been treating Teresa as though decisions about her life belonged to other people.

Tonight, at least, somebody was asking what she wanted.

She adjusted the blue blanket around her shoulders.

Then she looked at Michael.

“I know where the green book is.”

His expression changed.

“Mom, we don’t need to—”

“Yes,” she said. “We do.”

The room went silent.

Teresa looked toward the cabinet beside the fireplace.

“Antonio kept a little wooden box there. The one with the brass corners.”

I remembered it.

I’d dusted that box dozens of times.

It held old greeting cards, a few restaurant menus, and a bundle of handwritten recipes.

I’d never thought to look beneath them.

“Would you like me to get it?” I asked.

Teresa nodded.

I brought the box to the table.

She lifted the lid herself.

Her fingers trembled badly, so I steadied one corner.

Beneath the cards was a small green notebook.

The cover was faded.

One edge had curled from age.

Antonio’s initials were written across the front.

Michael made a movement toward it.

Luca stepped between them.

“Let Mom open it.”

Teresa carefully turned the first page.

The handwriting inside was neat.

Dates.

Household payments.

Repairs.

Gifts to relatives.

Small notes about birthdays and anniversaries.

There was an entry from eight years earlier.

Luca brought cannoli. Too much filling. Teresa says don’t complain.

Luca smiled unexpectedly.

“He used to pretend he hated those.”

Teresa smiled back.

“He ate six.”

For one brief moment, they looked like an ordinary mother and son remembering someone they loved.

Then she turned another page.

The smile disappeared.

A section near the back had been marked with a blue ribbon.

Not expensive.

Not decorative.

Just a narrow strip of fabric used as a bookmark.

Teresa opened it.

There were several entries under the heading:

Michael — advances.

The first showed forty thousand dollars.

The next, seventy-five thousand.

Then another.

And another.

Luca leaned closer.

“These add up to more than two hundred thousand.”

Michael folded his arms.

“Dad included business expenses. Some of that was reimbursement.”

“Then there should be records.”

“There are.”

“Where?”

Michael didn’t answer.

Teresa turned the next page.

Half of it had been torn away.

The paper had been removed carefully, close to the binding.

Luca touched the rough edge.

“Who did this?”

Teresa shook her head.

“I didn’t.”

Michael looked away.

I remembered something.

Three mornings earlier, I’d been changing the linen in Teresa’s bedroom when I found a small pile of green paper scraps in the wastebasket.

I’d assumed Teresa had been sorting old letters.

But the scraps had looked like notebook pages.

“Mrs. Moretti,” I asked, “did you have this book upstairs recently?”

She nodded.

“Michael brought it.”

Luca looked up.

“When?”

“Last week.”

Michael sighed.

“I was helping Mom sort her things.”

Teresa shook her head.

“He wanted to know what I remembered.”

Luca’s expression hardened.

“Remembered about what?”

She touched the torn page.

“Your father was angry.”

Michael spoke quickly.

“He wasn’t angry. He was worried.”

“He was angry because money was missing.”

Luca stared at him.

“How much?”

Michael’s voice became defensive.

“We’ve already discussed the loans.”

Teresa looked at her youngest son.

“No, Michael. Not the loans.”

She turned to another page.

There were several entries marked with small stars.

Payments to a company called Westbridge Household Services.

The amounts weren’t enormous individually.

Six thousand dollars.

Eight thousand.

Twelve thousand.

But there were many of them.

Luca frowned.

“Westbridge?”

Michael nodded.

“A property management contractor.”

“For what property?”

“The family buildings.”

Luca looked at him.

“Dad’s personal account didn’t pay for those buildings.”

Michael hesitated.

“That was part of the arrangement.”

Teresa pointed to a note beside one payment.

Ask Michael about care account.

Luca read it aloud.

“What care account?”

Michael’s face changed.

“It was money Dad put aside for Mom.”

Teresa nodded.

“He wanted me to have help when I needed it.”

Luca looked toward his mother.

“Why didn’t I know about this?”

“Your father said you already had too much responsibility.”

Michael gave a bitter laugh.

“That’s exactly what he said.”

Luca ignored him.

“How much was in the account?”

Teresa thought carefully.

Then she looked toward Michael.

“You know.”

He didn’t answer.

Luca closed the notebook.

“Michael, I want the records.”

“You can’t just demand access to Mom’s private accounts.”

Teresa straightened.

“They’re my accounts.”

Michael looked startled.

She held out her hand.

“Give Luca the records.”

For several seconds, nobody moved.

Then Michael said something that made me feel cold.

“Mom, you signed an authorization after Dad died. I manage those accounts because you couldn’t handle the responsibility.”

Teresa stared at him.

“I signed because you said Luca was too busy.”

“That was part of it.”

She shook her head.

“You told me it was temporary.”

Michael said nothing.

Luca looked at him.

“Is your authority still active?”

“Yes.”

“Then tomorrow you’re going to provide a complete accounting.”

Michael looked toward Vanessa.

She was staring at the green notebook.

Suddenly, she spoke.

“Luca, there may be another problem.”

He turned.

“What?”

She reached into her evening bag and removed a folded household statement.

“I found this while arranging the wedding payments.”

Michael went pale.

Vanessa placed it on the table.

“Westbridge charged Teresa’s account for private nursing visits.”

I looked at the dates.

Then at the amounts.

My heart started pounding.

“Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, “I’ve been working here during those months.”

Luca looked at me.

I pointed to the statement.

“There were no private nurses here on any of those dates.”

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