Chapter 9 – THE WAX SEAL

I stared at the wax seal.

The happy, peaceful ending we had just secured suddenly felt incredibly fragile.

I picked up the envelope. It was thick, heavy.

Madison walked out of the house, drying her hair with a towel.

“Pizza’s here,” she called out cheerfully.

She stopped when she saw my face.

“Olivia? What is it?”

I held up the envelope. “I found this stuffed behind the steering column.”

Madison walked over, her smile vanishing. “Grandpa left another one?”

I broke the red wax seal.

Inside was a single, old train ticket from Chicago to our small town, dated thirty years ago.

And wrapped inside the ticket was a black-and-white photograph.

It showed a young man and a young woman standing in front of a church.

The man was Grandpa.

But the woman wasn’t my grandmother.

It was a beautiful, dark-haired woman holding a baby.

I turned the photograph over.

Written in faded ink were the words: “Anna Moretti and baby Grace. I’m sorry I couldn’t save them.”

Madison gasped. “Moretti? As in… the mafia family the bracelet belonged to?”

I felt a cold chill run down my spine.

“Grandpa knew them,” I whispered. “He didn’t just find that diamond bracelet. He was connected to them.”

Aunt Linda stepped out onto the porch, carrying the pizza boxes.

She saw us huddled over the photograph.

“What did you girls find?” she asked.

I walked over and handed her the picture.

As soon as Linda saw the woman’s face, she dropped the pizza boxes.

The cardboard hit the wood porch with a dull thud.

“Where did you find this?” Linda demanded, her voice sharper than I had ever heard it.

“In the truck,” I said. “Who is Anna Moretti?”

Linda looked around the quiet, suburban street as if expecting a sniper in the trees.

“Inside. Now.”

We rushed into the kitchen. Linda locked the deadbolt and pulled the blinds shut.

“Aunt Linda, you’re scaring me,” Madison said.

Linda set the photograph on the counter. Her hands were shaking.

“Your grandfather didn’t build his construction business from nothing, Olivia,” Linda said quietly. “He started as a driver. In Chicago.”

“A driver for the mob?” I asked, horrified.

“A driver for Celia Moretti,” Linda corrected. “And thirty years ago, he was tasked with driving Celia’s disgraced niece, Anna, out of the city.”

Linda tapped the baby in the photograph.

“But he didn’t just take Anna. He took her daughter, Grace.”

“Why?” Madison asked.

“Because Celia ordered your grandfather to kill the child,” Linda whispered.

The kitchen went dead silent.

“He couldn’t do it,” Linda continued, tears welling in her eyes. “He let Anna run away with the baby. And he faked their deaths.”

My mind was reeling. “If he faked their deaths, why is he apologizing on the back of the photo? He wrote, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save them.’”

Linda closed her eyes.

“Because Celia Moretti found out,” Linda said. “Ten years later, Celia tracked them down. She sent her men to run Anna’s car off the road.”

Madison grabbed the edge of the counter, her face turning completely white.

“Wait,” Madison choked out.

She ran upstairs and came back down a minute later, holding her childhood diary.

She pulled out the photograph of her parents—the one Dad had thrown on the floor.

She laid it next to the old black-and-white photo of Anna.

I stared at the two women.

The dark hair. The identical curve of their smiles.

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

Madison looked at Linda, her eyes wide with terror.

“My mother’s name wasn’t Mary,” Madison said, her voice shaking violently. “Her name was Anna Moretti.”

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