Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE VANESSA NEVER MENTIONED
Vanessa did not answer.
For the first time all night, she seemed to have no prepared explanation.
Luca waited.
“Why did you buy Taylor Street?”
She picked up her purse.
“I didn’t personally select every property.”
“You signed the authorization.”
“So?”
“So answer me.”
Vanessa looked at Patrick.
“Tell him.”
Patrick frowned.
“Tell him what?”
“The entire Taylor block is being evaluated.”
Patrick shook his head.
“No, it isn’t.”
Vanessa stared.
He continued.
“We have no approved project on Taylor Street.”
Luca’s eyes never left her.
“Try again.”
She exhaled.
“Richard thought the parcel would become valuable.”
“Richard Hale?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s the second time you’ve hidden behind his name tonight.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You forged authority on seven acquisitions and somehow Richard is involved in all seven.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You want to make me the villain because an old woman brought you pasta.”
“No.”
Luca looked toward Teresa.
“I’m beginning to wonder why you were so desperate to keep that old woman away from me.”
Vanessa laughed.
“Listen to yourself.”
“I am.”
She picked up her coat.
“Good. Keep doing that after you calm down.”
She walked toward the door.
Luca did not stop her.
That surprised me.
Apparently it surprised Vanessa too.
She paused.
Looked back.
“Are you really going to let me walk out?”
Luca’s expression did not change.
“You’re an adult.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Six weeks from now I was supposed to become your wife.”
“Was?”
She froze.
Nobody moved.
Luca did not repeat it.
He didn’t need to.
Vanessa looked at him for a long moment.
Then she left.
The front door closed.
A car started in the courtyard.
Teresa whispered, “Luca…”
He stared at the door.
Then pulled out his phone.
“Daniel.”
It was after ten.
His general counsel answered anyway.
Luca gave him the seven addresses.
“Freeze every pending action.”
He listened.
“All seven.”
Another pause.
“No demolition. No notices. No transfers. Nothing moves.”
Patrick stood beside him.
“Ask him about access logs.”
Luca nodded.
“And audit every authorization tied to Vanessa Bellini or Richard Hale for the past year.”
He listened.
Then his face changed.
“What?”
Patrick leaned closer.
Luca looked toward me.
“Say that again.”
A long pause.
“When?”
He ended the call.
“What is it?” Patrick asked.
Luca’s eyes moved toward the hallway that led to his private office.
“Someone changed the approval protocol on my family trust three months ago.”
Patrick went pale.
“That requires your authorization.”
“Apparently I gave it.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
Silence.
Teresa sat down.
I realized she was still wearing her winter coat.
I brought her water.
Her hands were shaking.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Luca saw.
His anger softened for a moment.
He crouched beside her.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not knowing about the restaurant.”
She touched his cheek the way an aunt might.
“You cannot know every piece of paper in your company.”
“I should know when somebody uses my name.”
“Yes.”
Her expression changed.
“And you should know when somebody buys your mother’s house.”
Luca stood.
“Tell me about Taylor Street.”
Teresa looked at Patrick.
He looked away.
That bothered Luca.
“What?”
Patrick shook his head.
“Teresa knows more than I do.”
“Apparently everyone does.”
His bitterness filled the room.
Teresa sighed.
“Your mother loved that house.”
“I remember parts of it.”
“You were twelve when she died.”
“I remember the kitchen.”
Teresa smiled sadly.
“She painted it yellow.”
“Too yellow.”
“She said winter in Chicago needed fighting.”
For a second, Luca almost smiled.
Then it disappeared.
“My father sold the house after she died.”
Teresa looked at him.
“No.”
His face changed.
“What?”
“Antonio told you he sold it.”
“You’re saying he lied?”
“I’m saying Rosa kept it.”
“My aunt?”
“Yes.”
“She told me she sold it years later.”
Teresa shook her head.
“Rosa told Antonio that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is she?”
Teresa looked down.
Luca already knew the answer he had been given his whole life.
“Aunt Rosa died.”
Teresa did not respond.
He stared.
“Teresa.”
“She disappeared.”
The words barely left her mouth.
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
“My father told me she was dead.”
“Your father had been dead twelve years by then.”
Luca frowned.
“My family attorney told me.”
Patrick looked uneasy.
Luca noticed.
“Who told the attorney?”
Patrick did not answer.
Luca stepped toward him.
“Patrick.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not true.”
“I knew she left Chicago.”
“You knew she was alive?”
“At the time.”
The hurt that crossed Luca’s face was brief.
But real.
“And you let me believe she died.”
“She asked people not to search for her.”
“Why?”
Patrick hesitated.
“Because she was afraid.”
“Of whom?”
“I never knew.”
Teresa whispered, “Richard.”
Everyone turned.
“How do you know?” Luca asked.
“Because she said his name the last time I saw her.”
Luca sat down slowly.
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
“She came to Caruso’s after closing.”
Teresa looked toward the cold fireplace.
“She kept checking the windows.”
“What did she say?”
“That someone had started asking questions about Elena again.”
“Who?”
“She never said.”
“And Richard?”
Teresa nodded.
“She said if Richard Hale ever learned what Elena left behind, nobody connected to Taylor Street would be safe.”
The room went silent.
I had heard enough wealthy-family drama in the last hour to know I should keep my mouth closed.
But one phrase bothered me.
“Left behind?”
Everyone looked at me.
I immediately regretted speaking.
Luca said, “What?”
“Mrs. Caruso said Elena left something.”
Teresa’s face changed.
“I didn’t mean…”
Luca turned toward her.
“What did my mother leave?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just said—”
“Rosa said it.”
“Exactly what?”
Teresa closed her eyes.
Then quoted from memory.
“‘Elena was smarter than all of them. She left the truth in pieces.’”
Luca did not move.
Patrick whispered, “Pieces of what?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
Luca looked down at the seven properties.
Caruso’s.
Taylor Street.
Five others.
“What are the other addresses?”
Patrick read them.
A bakery in Bridgeport.
An old warehouse near Halsted.
Two apartment buildings.
A former parish office.
And a closed tailor shop.
Teresa reacted to the tailor shop.
Luca noticed.
“What?”
“Rosa worked there.”
“When?”
“As a girl.”
Luca looked at the bakery.
Teresa nodded before he asked.
“Your mother bought your birthday cakes there.”
The warehouse.
“Antonio’s first trucking office.”
The parish office.
“Elena volunteered there.”
Each property touched his family.
None were random.
Luca stared at the list.
Vanessa and Richard had not been assembling a development corridor.
They had been buying pieces of Luca’s childhood.
“Why?” I whispered.
Nobody answered.
Then Teresa touched my arm.
Her expression became urgent.
“Emma.”
“What?”
“The spoon.”
I looked at the old wooden serving spoon I had set on the sideboard.
“What about it?”
She walked over.
Picked it up.
Held it against her chest.
“Elena gave me this.”
Luca looked at it.
“When?”
“Three days before she died.”
Everyone went still.
Teresa looked at me.
“Take it.”
“Why me?”
“Please.”
I did.
The handle was worn smooth.
Warm from her hands.
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.”
She looked toward the windows.
“I want it out of this house.”
That frightened me more than anything else she had said.
Luca stepped closer.
“Teresa.”
She put on her gloves.
“I’m tired.”
“I’ll have someone drive you home.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She almost argued.
Then changed her mind.
“Fine.”
Before she left, she hugged Luca.
Not politely.
Tightly.
“Do not go to Taylor Street alone.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
She whispered something I could barely hear.
“Because Rosa told me someone had already searched it.”
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
“Who?”
Teresa looked toward the front door Vanessa had walked through.
“I don’t know.”
Then she left.
Luca stared after her.
Patrick went to call Daniel.
I carried the spoon toward the staff corridor.
“Emma.”
I stopped.
Luca looked at me.
“Go home.”
I almost laughed.
“I was planning to.”
“Take the car.”
“I can take the train.”
“No.”
“It’s only—”
“Take the car.”
Something in his face stopped me from arguing.
Twenty minutes later, I sat in the back of a black SUV while snow streaked across the windows.
The spoon rested in my lap.
I kept thinking about Elena Moretti holding it thirty-one years earlier.
I turned it over.
Nothing unusual.
Old walnut handle.
A crack near the end.
A faint dark spot where sauce had probably stained it years ago.
Then I heard a tiny sound.
Click.
Something inside the handle moved.
I froze.
I shook it gently.
Another click.
The end of the handle was not solid.
It twisted.
My pulse accelerated.
I unscrewed a small wooden cap.
A brass key slid into my palm.
Wrapped around it was a yellowed strip of paper.
One word.
ELENA.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice spoke.
“You found it.”
My blood went cold.
“Who is this?”
Silence.
Then:
“You have a father recovering from a stroke, Emma.”
I stopped breathing.
The voice continued.
“Throw away the key.”
The line went dead.
A second later, a photograph appeared on my phone.
My father.
Sitting beside the rehabilitation clinic window.
Taken that afternoon.
Under the photograph:
May you like
BY 9 A.M.
OR NEXT TIME WE COME CLOSER.
