Chapter 3 - The gilded cage
The heavy oak door of the master guest suite clicked shut, locking from the outside. Amelia stood in the center of the massive, cinematic room, her mind spinning. The suite was breathtaking, decorated in soft creams and gold, with a massive king-sized bed, crystal lamps, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the estate’s private gardens. It was a gilded cage, miles away from the cramped, windowless servant quarters in the basement where she had lived for the past six months.
Lorenzo had brought her here, told her to lock the bathroom door if she heard any strange noises, and left without giving her the envelope.
Amelia paced the length of the plush carpet, her black flats sinking into the fabric. She absentmindedly untied her white apron, tossing it over a velvet armchair. The sting on her cheek had faded into a dull throb, but the shock of the night was burning fiercely in her chest.
She walked over to the grand fireplace. Sitting on the mantle was an array of framed photographs spanning generations of the Vescari family. Lorenzo as a young boy, standing beside a towering, imposing man with the same rugged jawline—his father, the late Don Vescari. But as Amelia looked closer at the photos, her breath caught.
Tucked slightly behind a silver frame was a small, candid photograph. It showed the old Don sitting at the very same antique piano in the ballroom. Sitting next to him, laughing beautifully with her fair, rosy skin glowing under the lights, was a young woman.
Amelia reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the photograph. It was her mother.
She looked younger, dressed not in the faded waitress uniforms Amelia remembered, but in a stunning, elegant silk dress, wearing a delicate diamond pendant around her neck. The way the old Don was looking at her mother—it wasn’t the look of a boss and a servant. It was the look of a man entirely, hopelessly in love.
A soft knock at the door broke her concentration. She spun around, clutching the photograph to her chest.
The lock clicked, and Lorenzo stepped into the room. He had removed his tuxedo jacket and unfastened the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt, revealing the faint shadow of a dark tattoo on his collarbone. He looked exhausted, yet utterly commanding. In his large hand, he held the wax-sealed envelope.
“You found it,” Lorenzo said quietly, his eyes falling to the photograph in her hand.
“Who was she?” Amelia asked, her American accent trembling with unshed tears. “She raised me in a tiny apartment on the east side. She worked double shifts until her hands bled. She told me my father died before I was born. Who was she to your family?”
Lorenzo walked slowly across the room, stopping just inches away from her. He looked down at her, his expression softening just a fraction, revealing the heavy burden he carried.
“Her name was Evelyn,” Lorenzo said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “And she wasn't just a woman my father loved. She was the architect of the Vescari family’s legitimate empire. She built the banks, the real estate holding companies, everything that keeps us out of federal prison today.”
Amelia shook her head, unable to process the magnitude of the revelation. “Then why did she leave? Why did we live in poverty?”
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Lorenzo handed her the envelope. The black wax seal had already been broken.
“Because my father didn't hide that piano to keep a secret from Vivienne,” Lorenzo said, his eyes locking onto hers with a frightening intensity. “He hid it to keep a secret from me. Read the letter, Amelia. And understand why Vivienne is going to try to kill you before the sun comes up.”
