Chapter 4 - The Secret Behind My Father's Debt
Vittorio Moretti had supposedly died eleven years earlier.
There had been a funeral.
A coffin.
A family service.
Luca had been twenty-three.
Elena nineteen.
But Elena told us she'd seen him in Milan.
Not a photograph.
Not a rumor.
Him.
"He recognized me," she said.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Luca asked.
"Because I thought I was wrong."
"You weren't."
"No."
"How do you know?"
"Because he contacted me afterward."
She removed her phone.
There was one message.
Your brother must marry before October 18.
I looked at the date.
October 18 was six weeks away.
"Why?"
Elena shook her head.
"I don't know."
Luca paced toward the window.
The mystery had become bigger than our marriage.
His father's will.
Marco's payments.
My father's audit.
Vittorio.
The hidden account.
And me.
Somebody had specifically chosen me.
The answer arrived the following morning.
Not through a threatening message.
Not through some dramatic stranger at the gates.
Through flour.
I was baking.
When my mind became too loud, I baked.
Bread that morning.
Four loaves.
Luca found me before sunrise.
"You couldn't sleep."
"Neither could you."
He leaned against the counter.
For once, he wasn't wearing a suit.
Black sweater.
Dark trousers.
Bare feet.
He looked almost normal.
Almost.
"Why did you stay?" he asked.
"Again?"
"After learning all this."
I kneaded the dough.
"Do you want me to leave?"
"No."
The answer came so quickly that I stopped.
Luca looked almost annoyed with himself.
I smiled.
"Then stop asking."
He came closer.
"Sophia."
"Yes?"
"I spent years thinking women left because they looked at me and saw something they couldn't want."
My hands stopped moving.
He continued quietly.
"I know how ridiculous that sounds."
"It doesn't."
"I'm six foot six."
"I'm aware."
"I've frightened people by entering elevators."
"That's because you take up most of the elevator."
That earned the smallest smile.
Then it disappeared.
"I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
He looked at me.
"This."
Us.
I understood.
So I wiped flour from my hands.
Then deliberately placed one flour-covered palm against the front of his black sweater.
His eyes widened.
"What are you doing?"
"Ruining an expensive sweater."
"Sophia."
"You survived."
He looked down at the white handprint.
Then at me.
And laughed.
I laughed too.
For perhaps thirty seconds, there were no conspiracies.
No debts.
No Mafia families.
Just a baker and her absurdly large husband standing in a kitchen before sunrise.
Then I noticed the flour bag.
BENNETT & SONS MILLING.
I frowned.
My grandfather's old company.
The bakery hadn't used that flour in years.
"Where did this come from?"
"The cellar," Luca said.
"What?"
"The kitchen staff found several unopened crates yesterday."
I turned the bag over.
A faded shipping label remained attached.
Destination:
MORETTI ESTATE — 2009.
Seventeen years earlier.
The same year as the photograph of my father and Marco.
Inside the crate beneath the flour bags, we found a metal box.
My father's handwriting appeared across the lid.
FOR L.M. WHEN HE MARRIES.
Luca stared at me.
I opened it.
Inside was a ledger.
The hidden account.
Every payment.
Every transfer.
Seventeen years.
And on the final page was the name of the person who had authorized them.
Not Marco.
Not Vittorio.
Not Luca's father.
Elena Moretti.
Luca slowly raised his eyes toward the doorway.
His sister was standing there.
May you like
And she had seen the ledger.
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