[COMPLETED] His Fiancée Ordered a Maid to Kneel Before Her Father—Then Luca Moretti Noticed Her Torn Sleeve

The name came out so softly that, for a moment, I thought only Luca had heard it.

“Elena Rossi.”

His hand closed around the chair. Across the table, Richard Bellini lowered his eyes. Vanessa looked at her father, and that small movement frightened me more than anything she had done with the wine.

Luca was the first to speak. “Say it again.”

“Elena Rossi, sir.”

For a moment he seemed younger than thirty-eight. Not weaker. Just caught somewhere I couldn't follow.

“Elena worked for the Bellinis,” I said. “Claire told me she was the first woman who tried to tell you the truth.”

“That woman stole from my brother,” Luca said.

He spoke as if repeating something memorized long ago. Vanessa reached for his sleeve.

“Darling, this is exactly why I wanted this stopped. Emily has heard a story and—”

“Take your hand off me.”

Vanessa stepped back. Luca looked at Richard.

“Twelve years,” he said. “You told me Elena sold Matteo's documents to a competitor. You told me she left Chicago with the money.”

“Because she did,” Richard replied. His voice was steady, but his fingers were gripping the tablecloth. “You were there for the investigation.”

“I was at my brother's funeral.”

Silence settled over the room. I hadn't known Matteo Moretti's name until that moment. I knew only that Luca's younger brother had died at a Bellini family gathering, years before I came to Chicago, and that nobody in the mansion spoke of it.

Luca turned to me. “Emily, did Claire tell you she had spoken to Elena herself?”

“Yes. She said Elena came to see her one afternoon. She was afraid somebody had found her.”

“When?”

“Almost a year ago, before Claire left.”

Vanessa shook her head. “This is cruel. You're allowing a woman you barely know to dig through your family's grief.”

Luca looked at my torn sleeve. “I know what happened in this room. I watched you pour wine on her after your father admitted touching her.”

Richard pushed himself to his feet. “I won't stand here and be insulted by my future son-in-law.”

“You're free to leave,” Luca said. “But don't mistake that for the end of this conversation.”

He turned toward the doorway. Daniel Price, the mansion's security director, had appeared there when the shouting began.

“Please see the guests out. Preserve the dining-room recordings. All of them, including the service corridor. Nobody alters a file.”

Daniel nodded once. Vanessa followed him with her eyes, looking suddenly uncertain.

Richard picked up his coat. As he passed my chair, he leaned close enough for me to smell his expensive cologne.

“You have a sick mother, don't you?” he murmured.

My stomach tightened.

Luca heard him. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Richard answered.

“He mentioned my mother,” I said, surprised by the sound of my own voice.

Luca moved between us. He didn't touch Richard. He didn't need to.

“Leave my house.”

Richard went. Vanessa hesitated beneath the chandelier, her eyes fixed on me.

“You have no idea what you're doing,” she whispered.

I thought she meant I might lose my job. By the time she followed her father, I wasn't sure.

The dining room emptied in stages. Guests who had watched me being humiliated suddenly wanted to tell me how terribly they felt. One woman squeezed my hand and said she'd thought of speaking up. I didn't know what to say to that. I was still wearing the wine.

When the last guest left, Luca sent for the house manager and asked her to arrange another uniform. Then he stopped himself.

“Emily, would you prefer to go home?”

I looked at the clock. My mother would be expecting a call after her evening medication.

“I'd like to change first.”

“Of course.”

He glanced at Daniel. “Please photograph the sleeve and apron only if Emily agrees. Keep the originals in a clean bag if she wants to make a report.”

I nodded. The difference between being ordered and being asked nearly made me cry.

In the staff washroom I washed wine from my hands, though it had already dried between my fingers. The skin beneath my cuff was marked with four purple impressions. I photographed them myself. Then I called my mother.

“Long dinner?” she asked.

“Longer than I expected.”

She sounded tired but cheerful. She'd managed the stairs without stopping that afternoon. I let her tell me about it. I didn't tell her a powerful man knew about her illness. Not yet.

When I returned, Luca was in his study. The black jacket was gone, and his sleeves were rolled to the elbows. A photograph stood on the desk: two brothers laughing on a sailboat, one with Luca's dark eyes and a wider smile.

“That's Matteo,” he said when he noticed me looking.

“He looks like you.”

“He used to say I looked like him.”

His mouth moved, almost a smile, before it disappeared.

Daniel laid a tablet on the desk. “The dining camera shows Mr. Bellini leaning toward Emily, but the table blocks his hand. The corridor camera has Vanessa following Emily afterward. We have the guest list. I can request statements, but some people may decline.”

“Don't pressure anyone,” Luca said. “Make copies with timestamps and record who handles them.”

Daniel left us alone. Luca gestured toward a chair, then stayed standing until I sat.

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

“You didn't pour the wine.”

“I brought those people into my home. I let Vanessa decide how the staff should be treated when I wasn't watching.”

I thought of the times Vanessa had sent someone home crying. I had always assumed he knew.

“Claire tried to tell you something once,” I said.

Luca turned sharply. “When?”

“She wrote you a letter. She said it was important and private. A few days later, Vanessa told her she was no longer needed.”

“I never received it.”

I believed him. That didn't make the feeling in my stomach any lighter.

“Can you contact Claire?” he asked.

“I have an old number. I don't know if it works.”

“Then use it only if you feel safe doing so. I'm hiring an independent lawyer to review what happened tonight. You can speak to someone who doesn't work for me, and you can report Richard to the police whether or not you stay employed here.”

He reached for his wallet. I stood too quickly.

“Please don't offer me money to forget this.”

He looked genuinely startled. Then he put the wallet away.

“I was reaching for the card of a lawyer I trust,” he said. “But I understand.”

He wrote the number on a blank sheet and left it on the desk between us.

I picked it up because he hadn't pushed it toward me.

Outside, the house had grown quiet. The chandeliers still shone over a table stripped of glasses and plates. Someone had scrubbed the wine from the marble. Nothing about the floor showed what had happened there.

In the staff corridor I took out my phone and found Claire's number. My first message was brief.

It's Emily. I said Elena Rossi's name to Mr. Moretti tonight. Richard Bellini was here.

I stared at the screen for several minutes. Then three words appeared.

Don't go home alone.