Chapter 2 – THE PHOTOGRAPH BURIED IN THE ASHES

The smell of smoke filled the mansion.

I stood in the courtyard, shivering in the cool Chicago air, watching the flames swallow the apartment above the garage.

Everything I owned was in that room. My books, my clothes, the last letters my father wrote before he died. All of it, turning to ash.

Luca stood beside me. His dark suit was dusted with white plaster from the ceiling, his jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line.

Firetrucks wailed in the distance.

“I’m sorry, Olivia,” Luca said. His voice was low, meant only for me.

I wiped a tear from my cheek. “Why did she blow up my room?”

“She didn’t,” Daniel said, jogging over to us. He smelled of smoke, holding a heavy flashlight.

Luca turned. “Report.”

“The explosion wasn’t an attack, boss,” Daniel coughed. “It was a destruction of evidence. The fire investigators are pulling up, but my men got inside the garage before the flames breached the ceiling. The bomb was planted inside the air vent of Olivia’s room.”

“What was it meant to destroy?”

Daniel hesitated. He looked at me, then handed Luca a charred, partially melted metal lockbox.

“We found this under Olivia’s bed, sir. The heat warped the lock, so it popped open. The fire didn’t get to the inside.”

My eyes widened. “That’s not mine. I don’t own a lockbox.”

“I know,” Luca said.

He opened the lid.

Inside rested a stack of offshore bank statements, a burner phone, and a faded 8×10 photograph.

Luca picked up the photograph.

The color drained from his face.

I stepped closer to look.

It was a picture of a younger Luca, maybe twenty years old, standing next to an older man with a distinctive scar across his neck.

“Who is that?” I whispered.

“My uncle,” Luca said softly. “Victor. The man who was murdered five years ago.”

He turned the photograph over.

Written in fresh black ink were three words: The maid knows.

My breath caught in my throat.

Vanessa wasn’t just trying to fire me. She was framing me for the murder of a mafia boss.

“She planted this yesterday,” Luca said, his eyes burning with rage. “When she took your key. She set the bomb to go off tomorrow night, destroying your body and leaving just enough evidence in the fireproof box for the police to find. She was going to use the audio recordings to splice together a fake confession.”

“But why me?” I cried, panic rising in my chest. “I don’t know anything about your uncle!”

“Because you’re a ghost, Olivia,” Luca said gently. “You have no family in the city. No powerful friends. You’re the perfect scapegoat.”

“Sir,” Daniel interrupted, his radio crackling. “My men just cleared the office. The receiver is gone. And the main safe is open.”

Luca closed the lockbox.

“What did she take?”

“Nothing,” Daniel said. “The cash is there. The diamonds are there.”

Luca frowned.

If Vanessa was fleeing to Argentina, why leave millions of dollars behind?

“Answer one,” Luca murmured. “She isn’t running for money. She’s running for her life.”

He looked at Daniel.

“Check the east wing. Now.”

“What’s in the east wing?” I asked, my voice trembling.

Luca looked at me, a rare flash of fear in his dark eyes.

“My five-year-old son.”

Share