Luca didn’t wait for his security team.

He moved toward the French doors that led out to the courtyard, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, his stride long and furious. I stayed close behind him, holding Lily’s small, flour-covered hand tightly in mine.

Vanessa hurried after us, the hem of her expensive red gown dragging against the wet stone pavers of the terrace.

“Luca, listen to me!” she pleaded, her voice breathy and frantic. “The house was overflowing with Sarah’s things! Every closet, every drawer! You can’t build a marriage in a museum of dead memories!”

Luca stopped near the edge of the fountain.

He didn’t turn around. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than a whisper, but it made two catering staff members freeze where they stood.

“Did I give you permission to touch my wife’s belongings?”

“I am your fiancée!” Vanessa argued, tears of humiliation threatening her mascara. “I was doing what any wife would do! I was preparing this house for our future!”

“Answer the question,” Luca said, turning slowly. The Chicago night air was sharp and cold, but Luca looked like he was made of burning iron. “Did I tell you to touch them?”

“No,” Vanessa stammered, pulling her silk shawl around her shoulders. “Because you would never do it yourself! You’re drowning in the past, Luca! And I won’t live in Sarah’s shadow!”

Down at the service gates, the yellow taillights of an unmarked white box truck were idling. A burly driver in work boots was strapping down the rear roll-up door.

Luca covered the driveway in seconds.

“Cut the engine,” Luca commanded.

The driver glanced up, saw the look in Luca Moretti’s eyes, and immediately killed the ignition. “Sir, the lady paid me in cash. Said these six wardrobe boxes had to go to the landfill before eight.”

My stomach dropped.

“The landfill?” I whispered.

Lily let out a tiny gasp and buried her face into my hip.

Vanessa’s knees seemed to buckle slightly. “It was old winter coats, Luca. Stained linens. Junk.”

Luca walked to the rear of the truck. “Open it.”

The driver didn’t hesitate. He pulled the latch and shoved the steel door upward with a loud rattle. Inside sat five tall brown cardboard boxes, each sealed with thick brown shipping tape.

Luca reached in, grabbed the tape of the nearest box, and ripped it open with one violent tug.

Inside were Sarah’s hand-knit sweaters. The floral dresses she wore in the garden. And sitting right on top was a framed photograph of Lily as a newborn, resting against Sarah’s bare chest.

Lily started to sob quietly.

Luca touched the glass of the frame. A muscle in his jaw ticked once, twice.

“You said six boxes,” Luca told the driver without looking back. “There are five here.”

The driver looked nervous. He pointed toward Vanessa’s silver Mercedes parked beneath the security lights near the detached garage.

“The lady kept the smallest one,” the driver said. “She put it in her front seat about twenty minutes ago.”

Vanessa took a step backward toward the main terrace stairs.

“Vanessa,” Luca called out, his voice deathly still. “Come here.”

“Luca, you’re embarrassing both of us in front of the staff—”

“Claire,” Luca said, turning to me. “Take Lily’s hand and stay right beside me.”

We walked toward the Mercedes. Through the tinted passenger window, beneath the interior light that hadn’t timed out yet, sat Sarah’s wooden recipe box.

The dark oak box Sarah’s grandmother had brought from Italy.

The box Lily had reached for that morning.

Vanessa stood frozen as Luca pulled open the passenger door of her car and lifted the wooden box. But as he turned it over in his hands, he noticed something wrong.

The brass clasp on the front had been forced open with a screwdriver. The wood around the latch was splintered and scratched.

And taped to the underside of the box was an empty, torn envelope.

Luca’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Sarah kept the key to her safety deposit box hidden inside this latch. Where is the key, Vanessa?”

Vanessa swallowed hard, her chin trembling.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.

Then Lily pulled gently on my apron and whispered:

“Claire… the shiny key isn’t in her car. I saw her slide it into her shoe before dinner.”

***