Chapter 2 - The Six-Month Silence“What complications?” I asked, my voice dropping the deferential tone I usually reserved for the estate’s residents.
Vanessa’s eyes flared with sudden, sharp fury. She took a step toward me, her diamond-encrusted bracelet clicking against her wrist. “This is none of your business, Claire. Mind your station, or you won't have one by the end of the hour.”
Emily swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the toes of her sensible flats. “He means the baby,” she murmured, her voice cracking slightly.
The wind whistled through the wrought-iron gates, carrying the distant, muffled sound of orchestral music drifting from the grand ballroom inside. For a second, the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
“Mr. Moretti knows?” I asked, staring at Emily’s swollen coat.
Emily gave a sad, hollow little laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across pavement. “I’ve been trying to tell him for six weeks.”
Vanessa stepped between us, her body language a physical barrier designed to cut Emily off from the warmth of the house entirely. “And Luca has made his feelings very clear on the matter.”
Emily looked down at her hands, the knuckles white where she gripped the gift bag. “He hasn’t returned a single call.”
A chill went straight down my spine. That was a lie. I knew it was a lie because I had been standing right there in the breakfast nook three mornings ago, dusting the crown molding above the espresso machine, when Luca had paused mid-sip of his coffee and looked up at Vanessa with a heavy, troubled frown.
“Have you heard from Emily?” Luca had asked. “She’s stopped answering my calls.”
And Vanessa had smiled, leaning across the marble island to adjust his lapel with sickening sweetness. “She’s busy, Luca. You know how young people are when they get wrapped up in their little projects.”
Now, standing in the freezing dark of the service entrance, I looked at Emily. The timeline didn't fit. The narrative didn't fit. Nothing about this added up.
“When did you last speak to your father?” I asked, ignoring Vanessa’s warning glare.
“Almost two months ago,” Emily whispered.
Vanessa’s expression hardened into granite. She reached into her sequined evening purse, pulled out a thick wad of folded twenty-dollar bills, and thrust them toward Emily like she was handing a tip to a troublesome parking attendant.
“Take a cab home, Emily,” Vanessa said smoothly, her voice dripping with condescension. “You’re clearly unwell, and you shouldn't be driving in this condition.”
Emily didn't even look at the money. Her jaw tightened, a rare spark of the old Moretti stubbornness flashing in her tired eyes. “I drove three hours to get here.”
Vanessa exhaled a long, dramatic breath of air that plumed white in the cold. “Then drive three hours back.”
“I just wanted Dad to hear it from me,” Emily said, her voice rising just enough to crack. “Not from a text. Not from a lawyer. From me.”
“And this is his engagement dinner,” Vanessa hissed, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. “Your father has spent his whole life cleaning up family mistakes, Emily. Don’t make him start again with yours.”
The words hung in the air like poison.
Family mistakes.
Emily flinched as if she had been whipped. Her eyes welled with tears, but she refused to let them fall, blinking furiously against the sting.
I stared at Vanessa. The sheer cruelty of it—the calculated, cold-blooded alienation of a father from his only child on the most important night of his life—turned my stomach.
“Mrs. Bellini,” I said, my voice dangerously level.
Vanessa turned her head, her lips curling into a sneer. “If you interfere, Claire, you’re finished here. Do you understand me? You’ll be scrubbing floors in the industrial district by midnight.”
I needed that paycheck. My mother’s house was sitting on a knife-edge of foreclosure, and my salary was the only thing standing between her and a cold winter on the street. Vanessa knew it. Everyone in this estate knew how tightly wound my finances were.
Vanessa smiled, triumphant, waiting for me to step back and bow my head. “Good. Now call the cab.”
Instead, I reached out, gently took Emily by the elbow, and pulled her past Vanessa’s outstretched hand.
“Come with me,” I said.
May you like
Vanessa shrieked, a sharp, unrefined sound that echoed off the stone walls. “Claire! You insolent little—!”
I didn't look back. I marched Emily right past the service elevators, down the polished marble corridor of the east wing, and straight toward the heavy double doors of the grand dining room, where thirty of Chicago’s most powerful, feared men and women were waiting for the guest of honor to take his seat.
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