Chapter 1 – THE MONSTER WE CALL FAMILY

The ballroom was so quiet I could hear the hum of the chandeliers.

Luca Moretti didn’t yell.

He didn’t lunge across the table.

He didn’t do any of the things a normal man would do after finding out his own brother had threatened a pregnant woman and forced her into hiding.

Instead, Luca stood up slowly.

His eyes were hollow, empty, terrifying.

“Richard,” he said.

His voice didn’t echo. It dropped like a stone.

Richard’s face was the color of ash. “Luca, listen to me. The child is confused. You know how Anna was. She wanted money—”

“Stop.”

Just one word.

But it carried so much authority that Richard actually stepped back, his expensive shoes scraping against the polished marble.

Luca turned to me. “Elena.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “Yes, sir?”

“Pick up the child. We’re leaving.”

“Luca, you have forty guests here!” Richard hissed, gesturing desperately toward the wealthy donors who were now staring openly, their expensive dinners forgotten. “You walk out that door, you ruin this foundation’s reputation!”

Luca didn’t even look at him.

He kept his eyes on Lucy, who was trembling against my apron.

“This foundation was built to protect children, Richard. But you used my name to destroy one.”

Luca reached out, his large hand gently brushing the top of Lucy’s dark curls. “You’re safe now, sweetheart. I promise you.”

I scooped Lucy into my arms. She was so light. Too light for an eight-year-old. She buried her face in my shoulder, her little fingers clutching the worn stuffed rabbit.

“Elena,” Luca said softly. “Where did she say her mother is?”

“At home, sir. She said her mother is very sick.”

Luca’s jaw clenched. “Show me.”

I didn’t look back at Richard. I didn’t look at the shocked faces of the elite guests. I just held the child tight and followed the most powerful man in Chicago out the service doors.

A sleek black SUV was waiting in the rain.

Luca opened the door himself, sheltering us with his own coat as we climbed inside.

“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing at the rearview mirror in surprise.

Lucy peeked out from my shoulder. “West 43rd Street. Apartment 4B.”

The driver’s eyes widened. That wasn’t a neighborhood where people like Luca Moretti went. It was the kind of neighborhood people prayed they’d never end up in.

The ride was silent.

Luca stared out the window, his reflection in the glass looking older, fractured. He kept turning the little red mitten over in his hands.

His mother’s stitching.

The stars.

The proof of a love he had been robbed of for eight years.

“Mr. Luca?” Lucy whispered into the dark car.

He turned immediately, his expression softening instantly. “Yes, Lucy?”

“Are you going to yell at Mommy? She didn’t want to break the rules. She only sent me because the doctors said she doesn’t have much time left.”

A raw, broken sound escaped Luca’s throat.

He leaned forward, ignoring the space between the seats, and gently took her small hand. “I am never going to yell at your mother. I’m going to take care of her. And I’m going to take care of you.”

Ten minutes later, we pulled up to a crumbling brick building.

The streetlights were broken. The rain was coming down harder now.

Luca didn’t wait for his security detail. He pushed open the door and strode into the damp, dark stairwell. I followed closely behind, carrying Lucy.

We reached the fourth floor.

Apartment 4B.

The door was painted a peeling, faded green.

Luca raised his hand and knocked.

Silence.

He knocked again, louder this time. “Anna? It’s Luca.”

Nothing.

Lucy squirmed in my arms. “Mommy never locks it when I go out, so I can get back in.”

Luca turned the knob.

The door creaked open.

The apartment was freezing. There was barely any furniture. Just a mattress on the floor, a tiny kitchen table, and a stack of unpaid medical bills near the sink.

But it was empty.

“Mommy?” Lucy called out, her voice echoing off the bare walls.

Panic seized my chest. “She wouldn’t have left if she was that sick,” I whispered.

Luca was already moving through the tiny rooms, his eyes scanning every corner.

“Anna!” he shouted.

Then he stopped dead in the doorway of the tiny bathroom.

I walked over, still holding Lucy, and looked past his shoulder.

My blood ran cold.

On the cracked linoleum floor lay a shattered water glass, a pool of spilled medication, and something else.

Luca slowly knelt down.

With shaking hands, he picked up a delicate silver rosary.

But it wasn’t just any rosary.

“Mr. Moretti?” I whispered. “What is that?”

He stared at the silver beads, his knuckles turning white.

“It belongs to my mother,” he breathed, his voice laced with pure dread. “She was buried with it fifteen years ago.”

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