The room spun.

I gripped the edge of Luca’s mahogany desk to keep myself from falling.

His child?

Luca stared at Mrs. Carter, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might shatter. "That's a lie," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I don't have a child. I've never..."

"Look at the back of the photograph, Luca," Mrs. Carter interrupted gently.

He turned the worn picture over.

Even from where I stood, I could see the faded ink. It was elegant, cursive handwriting. His mother’s handwriting.

Luca read the words silently. His chest stopped moving.

"Isabella," he whispered.

"She’s six years old," Mrs. Carter said, clutching her wool coat tighter around herself. "Your mother found out about her right before she passed away. She hired a private investigator."

"Who is the mother?" Luca demanded, stepping toward her. "If I have a six-year-old daughter, who is she?"

Mrs. Carter looked terrified. "Luca, I didn't read the whole letter. Vanessa walked in on me while I was holding it. She took the letter, but I managed to slip the photograph into my pocket."

Daniel stepped forward. "Boss, if Miss Bellini has the letter..."

"Where is Isabella?" Luca interrupted, ignoring Daniel. His eyes were burning into Mrs. Carter's. "If Vanessa knows about her, where is she?"

Mrs. Carter hesitated. She looked at me, then at Daniel.

"Vanessa told me that if I breathed a word of this to you, the girl’s current arrangement would become... unsafe."

"Unsafe?" Luca’s voice cracked like a whip. "Vanessa is threatening a child?"

"Vanessa isn't just threatening her, Luca," Mrs. Carter said softly. "She's paying for her."

The silence in the room was absolute.

I pressed my hand to my chest.

"Why would Vanessa pay for a child she’s hiding from me?" Luca asked, the pieces refusing to fit together.

"Because of where the money is going," Mrs. Carter reached into her other pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of heavy cardstock.

She handed it to him.

It was a boarding pass.

"I found this in the guest bedroom trash bin last week," Mrs. Carter explained. "Vanessa takes a private flight to Boston on the second Tuesday of every month. She says she’s visiting her aunt."

"She doesn't have an aunt in Boston," Luca said slowly, staring at the ticket.

"I know," Mrs. Carter said. "I looked up the address printed on her luggage tags once. It’s not a house, Luca. It’s a pediatric facility. St. Jude’s Home for Children."

Luca didn’t hesitate.

"Daniel. Get the jet ready. We leave for Boston in twenty minutes."

"Yes, boss." Daniel turned to leave.

"And Daniel?" Luca’s voice stopped him. "Lock down the estate. Vanessa doesn't leave this property until I return."

Daniel nodded and walked out.

Luca turned to Mrs. Carter. "Go to the safe house. Daniel's men will take you. You'll be safe there."

Mrs. Carter nodded, tears finally spilling over her cheeks. "Find her, Luca. Find Isabella."

As she left, Luca turned back to his desk. He was moving fast, grabbing his keys, his phone, his wallet.

I took a step backward, toward the door. "I'll... I'll go back to the kitchen, Mr. Moretti. I won't say a word."

"No."

I froze.

Luca looked up, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

"You're coming with me."

My breath hitched. "Sir? I... I’m just a waitress. I can’t..."

"Vanessa hurt you today because you found out too much," Luca said, stepping around the desk until he was standing right in front of me. He reached out, his fingers gently grazing the air near the tape on my broken glasses. "She knows you heard her. If I leave you here, she will punish you for it."

"She can't fire me if you say no," I whispered.

"I'm not worried about her firing you, Megan," Luca said grimly.

He didn't have to explain. I knew what the Moretti family was capable of. And I knew Vanessa had connections of her own.

Thirty minutes later, I was strapped into a leather seat on a private jet, flying through the dark sky toward Boston.

Luca sat across from me, staring out the window. He hadn't said a word since takeoff.

I nervously adjusted my broken glasses.

"Take them off," he murmured, not looking away from the window.

"Sir?"

He turned to me. "Your glasses. Take them off. They're hurting you."

I slowly pulled them off, placing them on the small table between us. The world blurred instantly.

Luca reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small, soft cloth and a silver money clip. With gentle, precise movements, he removed the cheap tape from my glasses, cleaned the lenses, and used a tiny penknife to tighten the hinge, wrapping the broken bridge tightly with a thick, sterile bandage strip from the plane's first-aid kit.

It wasn't pretty, but it was sturdy.

He handed them back.

I put them on. The sharp pain was gone. The blur vanished.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"We're going to find out the truth tonight, Megan," he said quietly.

Two hours later, we stood in the dimly lit hallway of St. Jude's Home for Children.

A tired-looking nurse led us to a small bedroom at the end of the hall.

"She's a sweet girl," the nurse whispered. "But she rarely speaks. Her benefactor pays handsomely for her privacy."

"Her benefactor," Luca said coldly. "Vanessa Bellini."

The nurse frowned, looking confused. "Who? No, sir."

Luca stopped walking. "What do you mean, no?"

The nurse opened the door to the bedroom.

"Her benefactor's name isn't Vanessa Bellini," the nurse said softly. "The woman who pays for her... is your mother."