Chapter 12 – THE HOUSEKEEPER AND THE HEIRLOOM

The silver butterfly charm dangled from Luca’s massive, trembling fingers.

He stared at the tiny bracelet, the undeniable proof that his nine-year-old daughter was breathing the same air, sleeping under the same roof.

“Where is she?” Luca demanded, turning his lethal gaze back to Vanessa.

Vanessa stumbled backward, her red silk gown catching on the leg of a chair. The arrogant, calculating woman was unraveling in real-time.

“She’s not here!” Vanessa shrieked, her eyes darting toward the grand staircase in the foyer. “Anna is lying! The maid planted that bracelet!”

I didn’t back down.

“I found it in the pantry,” I said firmly, despite the throbbing pain in my left hand. “And Mrs. Carter told me this morning not to clean the guest rooms in the West Wing because they were being renovated.”

Luca’s head snapped toward the head housekeeper, who was standing frozen near the kitchen doors.

“Mrs. Carter,” Luca said, his voice devoid of any warmth. “Are there contractors in the West Wing?”

The older housekeeper swallowed hard, her face draining of color.

“No, sir,” Mrs. Carter whispered. “Miss Vanessa told me she had hired private security for those rooms. She said you ordered it.”

“I ordered no such thing,” Luca growled.

He didn’t wait for another excuse.

Luca threw the silver bracelet onto the dining table and sprinted out of the room, his long strides eating up the distance to the grand staircase.

“Luca, wait!” Vanessa screamed, running after him.

I followed them, my heart racing. I knew I should stay back, but I couldn’t. I had to know if the little girl was safe.

We rushed up the sweeping marble stairs. The guests murmured in shock below, but no one dared follow the mafia boss into his private quarters.

Luca reached the second-floor landing and turned violently down the West Wing corridor.

At the very end of the hallway, standing in front of the heavy oak doors of the master guest suite, were two massive men in dark suits.

They weren’t Luca’s men.

“Move,” Luca commanded, not slowing his pace.

The two guards immediately crossed their arms, blocking the double doors.

“Sorry, Mr. Moretti,” the taller guard said, resting his hand on his holstered weapon. “Miss Bellini gave strict orders. Nobody goes in.”

Luca didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t argue.

In one fluid, terrifying motion, Luca grabbed the taller guard by the throat and slammed him against the mahogany wall. Before the second guard could draw his weapon, Luca kicked the man’s knee, snapping it with a sickening crunch.

The second guard collapsed, howling in pain.

Luca dropped the first guard and kicked the heavy oak doors open.

“Caroline?” Luca called out, his voice cracking. He was calling his dead wife’s name, desperate for the daughter who shared her blood.

I stepped into the room right behind him.

The suite was massive, decorated in soft pinks and whites. Toys were scattered across the Persian rug. A bookshelf was filled with fairy tales.

But the room was empty.

The bed was made. The closet doors were open.

There was no little girl.

Luca stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving as he looked at the empty space.

Vanessa arrived in the doorway, panting heavily. A cruel, triumphant smile spread across her face.

“I told you, Luca,” Vanessa sneered. “She’s not here. My men moved her out through the service elevator during the first course of dinner.”

Luca slowly turned around.

The absolute devastation in his eyes was unbearable. He had been minutes away from holding his child.

“You smuggled my daughter out of my own house?” Luca whispered.

“She’s my daughter now,” Vanessa said coldly. “And if you ever want to see her again, you will walk downstairs, you will put that ring on my finger, and you will marry me on Saturday. If you don’t, she gets put on a private jet tonight, and you will spend the rest of your life searching for a ghost.”

I felt sick to my stomach.

She was holding a nine-year-old child hostage to force a marriage.

Luca stared at the woman he had invited into his home. The mafia boss, who controlled half of Chicago, was completely powerless.

He looked down at his hands, defeated.

“Okay,” Luca whispered, his voice broken. “Okay. Just don’t hurt her.”

Vanessa’s smile widened. She had won.

“Smart choice, darling,” Vanessa purred.

But as she turned to leave the room, my eyes caught something resting on the bedside table.

It was a heavy, dark wool coat.

I recognized it immediately.

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension.

Vanessa whipped around, glaring at me. “I told you to shut up!”

I ignored her and pointed to the bedside table.

“That coat belongs to your head of security, Marco,” I said, looking at Luca. “I sewed a loose button on it for him yesterday.”

Luca frowned, following my gaze.

“Marco?” Luca asked. “Marco is running security downstairs.”

I shook my head.

“Marco hasn’t been downstairs all evening,” I said softly. “I haven’t seen him since dinner started.”

Vanessa’s triumphant smile faltered.

Suddenly, a deep voice echoed from the en-suite bathroom.

“She’s right, Boss.”

The bathroom door opened.

And Marco stepped out, holding a terrified, beautiful nine-year-old girl tightly against his side.

But Marco wasn’t protecting her.

He had a suppressed handgun pointed directly at the little girl’s head.

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