Chapter 2 - The Heirloom
“Fiancée,” Sophia repeated. The word tasted like ash. Vanessa’s smile widened, sharp and practiced. She stepped fully into the kitchen, the click of her heels sounding like a judge’s gavel. “Dante has been telling me about the new help,” Vanessa said. “Though I didn’t realize the help required personal grooming from the head of the Moretti family.” Dante’s face hardened. The warmth that had been there a second ago vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating mask of the man who ran lower Manhattan. “Sophia was preparing my mother’s lunch,” Dante said flatly. “There was a spill. Nothing more.” Sophia wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, suddenly feeling entirely out of place in her plain jeans and white apron. “Of course,” Vanessa purred. She walked closer to Sophia, the scent of expensive jasmine perfume suffocating the smell of simmering garlic and broth. “We are so grateful you’ve been able to get Elena to eat. She’s been so fragile lately. It’s pitiful, really.” Sophia’s spine straightened. “Your mother-in-law-to-be is many things, Miss Genovese. Pitiful is not one of them.” Vanessa’s eyes flashed. Dante stepped between them. “Vanessa. My office. Now.” “In a moment, darling.” Vanessa reached into her designer handbag. She pulled out a heavy, velvet box and set it on the marble counter. “I came to bring this. For the engagement gala next week.” She popped it open. Inside sat a massive, antique gold necklace set with blood-red rubies. Sophia stopped breathing. She recognized that necklace. It was the centerpiece of a famous robbery in the Bronx ten years ago—a robbery her own father had been accused of orchestrating before the charges were mysteriously dropped. Vanessa watched Sophia’s reaction with quiet triumph. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Vanessa asked softly. “It belonged to my grandmother. A family heirloom. So much history in one piece of gold. You never know who might have touched it.” Sophia looked at Dante. He was staring at the necklace, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He knew. “Take it to the vault,” Dante ordered his security chief, Enzo, who had just appeared in the doorway. As Vanessa turned to follow Dante out, she paused and leaned close to Sophia. “Enjoy playing house, waitress. But remember who owns the deed.” They left. Sophia gripped the edge of the counter, her mind spinning. Why did Vanessa have the necklace that almost sent her father to prison? Did Dante know her father’s debt wasn’t just gambling? A soft cough broke her thoughts. Elena Moretti sat in her wheelchair in the shadow of the pantry door. “She is a viper, that one,” Elena muttered in Sicilian. “She is your son’s fiancée,” Sophia replied carefully. Elena scoffed. She wheeled herself closer, reaching into the pocket of her knitted shawl. “My son is a fool who thinks he is protecting this family,” the old woman said. “Vanessa brings that necklace to mock him. To remind him of the leash her father holds.” Elena pressed a crumpled, slightly faded photograph into Sophia’s trembling hand. “Look at it,” Elena commanded. Sophia looked. It was a picture of Vanessa, a few years younger, kissing a man passionately outside a casino. But the man wasn’t Dante. It was Sophia’s father.
