Chapter 3 – THE HIDDEN PHOTOGRAPH

My hands shook so violently that the photograph slipped from my fingers, fluttering onto the worn carpet of my servant’s quarters.

Dante Moretti.

The man who had orchestrated the murder of Catherine Moretti. The man who had forced Vanessa to run her off the road.

Why was he holding my mother in a photograph taken five years ago—five years after he supposedly died?

A wave of nausea washed over me. My mother’s stroke last winter… the doctors said it was spontaneous. But I remembered she had been terrified the week before. She had kept the blinds drawn. She told me someone was watching the apartment.

Had Dante silenced her?

“Hannah!” Luca’s voice boomed from the hallway. “We need to move!”

I snatched the photograph from the floor, shoved it deep into my pocket, and grabbed my duffel bag.

I couldn’t tell Luca. Not yet. Not when we were minutes away from walking into a potential war zone to save his son. If he thought my family was connected to his wife’s murderer, he would never trust me again.

I ran out to the hallway. Luca was supporting his mother, his other hand gripping a suppressed pistol.

“The address came through,” Luca said grimly as we hurried down the back stairs to the underground garage. “An old farmhouse two hours north, near the Wisconsin border.”

We climbed into a heavily armored black SUV. Luca drove, his foot heavy on the gas, tearing out of the estate and onto the darkened highway.

The two-hour drive felt like an eternity. Teresa sat in the back, clutching her rosary and praying silently. I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window into the pitch-black night, feeling the weight of the photograph burning in my pocket.

Finally, we turned onto a dirt road surrounded by dense woods. At the end of the road stood an old, weathered farmhouse. There were no lights on inside.

Luca parked the SUV a hundred yards away, hidden in the trees.

“Stay here,” Luca commanded, checking the magazine of his weapon. “Lock the doors. If I’m not back in ten minutes, drive away and call Marco.”

“Be careful, sweetheart,” Teresa whispered.

Luca nodded and slipped into the darkness.

I sat in the front seat, my heart hammering against my ribs. Five minutes passed in agonizing silence. Then six.

Suddenly, a gunshot echoed from the farmhouse.

Teresa gasped.

I didn’t think. I unbuckled my seatbelt and grabbed the heavy Maglite flashlight from the center console.

“Hannah, don’t!” Teresa pleaded.

“Lock the doors behind me,” I said, slipping out into the cold night air.

I ran through the tall grass, my shoes soaking wet from the evening dew. As I approached the porch, the front door was wide open.

“Luca?” I whispered, creeping inside.

The living room was destroyed. Furniture was overturned, and bullet holes riddled the drywall.

Lying on the floor was a man in a tactical jacket, groaning in pain. Luca stood over him, his gun aimed at the man’s chest.

“Where is he?” Luca roared.

“He’s gone,” the man coughed, spitting blood. “Dante’s men got here first. They took the boy an hour ago.”

Luca’s face contorted in agony. He grabbed the man by his tactical vest and slammed him against the floorboards. “Where did they take him?!”

The man smiled, blood staining his teeth. “To the docks. Dante is leaving the country tonight. And he’s taking the kid with him.”

Luca stood up, his eyes wide with panic.

But as he turned toward the door, I noticed something resting on the kitchen table.

It was a piece of paper, illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the window.

I walked over and picked it up.

It was a child’s drawing, done in blue crayon.

It showed a little boy holding hands with a woman. Above them, written in messy, uneven letters, were the words: Mommy Hannah.

My blood ran cold.

“Hannah?” Luca asked, noticing my sudden stillness. “What is it?”

I slowly turned the paper around so he could see it.

“Luca,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Why would your son draw a picture of me?”

Luca stared at the drawing, completely stunned.

Before he could answer, the dying man on the floor began to laugh.

“She really doesn’t know, does she?” the man wheezed.

Luca aimed his gun back at him. “Shut your mouth.”

“Tell her, Luca,” the man taunted. “Tell the maid why her mother had a stroke. Tell her why Dante wanted Catherine dead in the first place.”

I looked at Luca. His face had gone completely pale.

“Because Catherine wasn’t Matteo’s real mother,” the man smiled.

“Hannah is.”

TITLE: The Coat in the Hall

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