Chapter 1 – THE GIRL IN THE YELLOW CARDIGAN

“How many years have you known my father had another daughter?”

Luca’s voice didn’t just echo in the ballroom.

It completely shattered the silence.

Vanessa’s hands shook so violently that the champagne glass she was holding slipped from her fingers.

It crashed against the marble floor.

The sound made seventy-eight-year-old Teresa flinch, but Luca didn’t even blink.

He didn’t look at the shattered glass.

He didn’t look at the whispering guests.

He only looked at his fiancée.

“Luca, this is insane,” Vanessa stammered, her voice high and breathless. “Your mother is confused. She’s old. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“Don’t talk about my mother,” Luca said quietly.

It wasn’t a yell.

It was a command.

And it terrified everyone in the room.

Vanessa took a step backward, her beautiful red silk gown suddenly looking like a heavy, suffocating costume.

“I don’t know anything about a little girl,” she insisted, her eyes darting toward the ballroom doors. “And I certainly don’t know anything about your father having an illegitimate child!”

Teresa tightened her grip on my arm.

Her frail fingers were trembling, but her voice was surprisingly steady.

“He didn’t,” Teresa whispered.

Luca turned back to his mother.

“Mom, you just said—”

“I said your father asked Michael to take away his daughter,” Teresa interrupted, tears spilling down her wrinkled cheeks. “I never said she was his illegitimate child.”

Luca froze.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

I stood there, supporting this brave old woman, feeling my own heart hammering against my ribs.

“Then whose daughter is she?” Luca asked, his voice suddenly sounding incredibly fragile.

Teresa looked up at her tall, powerful son.

The man who controlled half the city.

The man who had closed off his heart four years ago.

“She has your eyes, Luca,” Teresa whispered. “And she has Isabella’s smile.”

The name hit Luca like a physical blow.

Isabella.

I knew that name.

Everyone who worked in the Moretti mansion knew that name, even though we were strictly forbidden from saying it out loud.

Isabella was Luca’s first love.

The woman he was supposed to marry five years ago.

The woman who had tragically died in a horrific car accident just weeks before their wedding.

Luca stumbled backward, hitting the edge of the head table.

“Isabella died,” he choked out. “She was pregnant, and she died in the crash. The police found the car in the river.”

Vanessa immediately seized the moment.

“Exactly!” she cried out, grabbing Luca’s arm. “Darling, your mother is traumatized. She’s mixing up memories. Isabella is gone. The baby is gone. This maid—” she pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me “—is just trying to cause drama to extort money from us!”

I felt my face burn.

“That’s not true!” I said, stepping forward.

“Shut up, Hannah!” Vanessa snapped. “You’re fired. Get your things and get out of my house!”

“It’s not your house yet,” Luca said.

He pulled his arm out of Vanessa’s grasp.

Then he looked at me.

“Hannah,” he said, his voice dropping to a raw, desperate whisper. “The little girl you saw yesterday. Where was she?”

“By the front gates, sir,” I answered quickly. “She was holding a photograph. She asked if this was her grandfather’s house.”

Luca didn’t hesitate.

He turned away from Vanessa, away from the forty wealthy guests, and began walking toward the grand foyer.

“Luca, where are you going?!” Vanessa screamed, abandoning all her elegance. “Our guests are waiting! We have to cut the cake!”

“Cut it yourself,” he shot back without stopping.

He pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped out into the freezing Chicago night.

I didn’t wait for permission.

I helped Teresa into her wheelchair, and we followed him.

The rain had just started to fall.

Cold, heavy drops hit the marble steps as we hurried out onto the massive front porch.

Luca was already running down the driveway, his expensive black suit getting soaked in the downpour.

And then, I saw her.

Standing beneath the dim glow of the wrought-iron streetlamp.

The little girl in the yellow cardigan.

She was shivering, hugging her arms tightly across her chest.

When she saw Luca running toward her, she didn’t run away.

She just stood there, watching him with large, dark eyes.

Eyes that looked exactly like his.

Luca dropped to his knees in the puddles.

He didn’t care about his clothes.

He didn’t care about the mud.

He reached out, his hands trembling violently, hovering just inches from her face.

“Who are you?” he whispered, the rain masking the tears on his face.

The little girl sniffled.

She reached into her yellow cardigan and pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver locket.

It was the exact same locket Luca had buried with Isabella’s empty casket four years ago.

I gasped.

Teresa covered her mouth, sobbing quietly in her wheelchair.

The little girl clicked the locket open.

Inside was a faded photograph of Luca, taken when he was much younger, smiling brightly.

She pointed at the picture.

And then she looked directly at the man kneeling in front of her.

“My mommy told me you’re my daddy,” she whispered. “But the lady in the red dress told me you didn’t want me.”