Chapter 4 - Questions in the Study
The heavy oak door of the study was ajar, a thin wedge of yellow light spilling out onto the Persian runner of the upstairs hallway. Inside, the room smelled of old leather, pipe tobacco that Luca never smoked, and expensive bourbon.
Luca sat behind the large mahogany desk, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his tie pulled loose at the collar. The cardboard box Sal had carried sat right in the center of the leather blotter. The framed photograph was upright now, resting against a stack of architectural blueprints.
"Close the door, Emma," Luca said without looking up.
I pushed the heavy wood shut behind me, my heart hammering against my ribs. I stood just inside the threshold, my hands clasped together where my apron strings used to be. "Mr. Moretti? You wanted to see me?"
Luca raised his head. In the dim lamplight, the dark shadows under his eyes looked bruised. He looked tired—not the polished, untouchable executive who ran the Moretti Logistics firm, but a man who had just realized the floorboards beneath him were hollow.
"Sal left the box," Luca said, his finger tapping rhythmically against the corner of the wooden photograph frame. "And he told me some things about how his dismissal was handled. HR department signatures I didn't authorize. Payout structures I never approved." He paused, his dark eyes fixing on mine with an intense, unsparing clarity. "You were standing right there when Vanessa told me he retired."
I swallowed, my throat dry as dust. Vanessa's warning in the pantry echoed in my ears—*your brother's college tuition, your weekly paycheck*. But then I thought of Sal standing by the door with his cap and his gloves, looking at Luca like he was still the boy sitting in the back of that Lincoln.
"Ms. Bellini said he retired," I said carefully, choosing every word like a stone crossing a rushing creek.
"And before that?" Luca leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "In the dining room? What did she say to you before I walked out?"
"She told me to send him home," I whispered.
"And when you didn't?"
"He wanted to say goodbye, sir."
Luca let out a short, harsh breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though there was no humor in it. He reached out and picked up the framed photograph from the box. It was an old polaroid, the edges yellowed with age. It showed a younger Sal in a crisp gray uniform, standing beside a battered station wagon, holding a grinning ten-year-old boy who looked remarkably like Luca himself. Written across the bottom in shaky black marker were the words: *First day of school, 1998.*
"She told me this afternoon that Sal resigned of his own accord because his eyesight was failing," Luca said, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "She said she was protecting him from embarrassment."
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"Sal didn't look like a man who wanted to leave," I said, my courage surprising even me.
Luca stood up slowly, coming around the side of the desk. He stopped a few feet away, tall and imposing in his dark shirt. "Thank you, Emma. That’s all I needed to know."
