Chapter 6 – THE GIRL IN THE GARDEN

The photograph was old, the edges curled and faded with time.

It showed the garden behind the Moretti estate, beautifully manicured with blooming hydrangeas.

Standing in the center of the garden was my mother.

She looked young, perhaps in her early twenties, wearing a nurse’s uniform. She was smiling brightly.

But it wasn’t her smile that made my heart stop.

It was the man standing next to her.

Lorenzo Moretti. Luca’s father.

His arm was wrapped securely around my mother’s waist.

And in my mother’s arms was a baby.

I stared at the baby.

Then at my mother.

Then at the man who was supposed to be Luca’s father.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered, the paper trembling in my hands.

Luca knelt beside me, his voice barely above a whisper.

“My father didn’t just pay your mother to forge a will, Emily. They fell in love. My mother was already gone. Your mother was the nurse who cared for him during his grief.”

The world tilted.

“Are you saying…” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“You aren’t just a maid, Emily,” Michael said softly, walking over to join us. Bruno followed closely behind, resting his head on my knee. “You’re our sister.”

Tears blurred my vision.

My whole life, I believed my father was the quiet mechanic who raised me. The man who worked two jobs to keep a roof over our heads.

But the truth was written in the faded ink of a hidden photograph.

“Dominic Rossi didn’t poison your mother just for revenge,” Luca explained, his eyes dark with protective fury. “He poisoned her because he found out you existed. As a direct bloodline heir, you have a legal claim to the estate. A claim that overrides the forged will. If Dominic controlled you, he controlled the territory.”

Vanessa, who had been sitting quietly in handcuffs near the wall, let out a bitter laugh.

“Isn’t it poetic?” she sneered. “The little maid who cleans the toilets actually owns the house.”

Luca didn’t even look at her. “Get her out of my sight,” he ordered the police.

As they dragged Vanessa away, Luca gently took the photograph from my hands.

“Emily, where is your mother right now?”

“At the hospital on the west side,” I choked out. “She was admitted three days ago when the pain got worse.”

Luca stood up. He didn’t look like a businessman anymore. He looked like a protector.

“Michael, stay here and handle the police.”

Michael nodded. “Go.”

Luca turned to me and held out his hand.

“Come with me. We are going to save our mother.”

We ran out of the ballroom and into the cool Chicago night.

Luca’s black SUV was waiting. He drove it himself, tires squealing as we tore through the city streets.

I sat in the passenger seat, my mind racing.

My whole life was a lie. But right now, the only truth that mattered was keeping her alive.

We arrived at the hospital in under ten minutes.

Luca flashed a badge to the security guards—a perk of his connections—and we bypassed the front desk entirely.

We ran down the sterile white hallway toward Room 412.

But when we reached the door, it was wide open.

The bed was empty.

The heart monitor was flatlining, the long, continuous beep echoing through the empty room.

“Mom!” I screamed, rushing inside.

The sheets were torn. A tray of medical instruments was knocked over on the floor.

She was gone.

Luca checked the bathroom. Empty.

He walked over to the bed and touched the sheets.

“They’re still warm,” he said tightly. “She was taken within the last five minutes.”

I looked around frantically, panic squeezing my chest until I couldn’t breathe.

Then, I saw it.

Resting on the bedside table, deliberately left behind.

A child’s drawing.

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