Chapter 9 - The Yellow Notice
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Matteo buried his face in his father’s shoulder, his small hands gripping the fabric of Luca’s expensive suit jacket. The silence in the grand foyer was absolute. The billionaires and socialites stood frozen, holding their champagne flutes, witnessing a deeply private moment they had no business seeing.
Matteo sniffled and pulled back slightly, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He looked at the scorched corner of the box.
“So… you’re not embarrassed by it?” Matteo asked, his voice incredibly small.
Luca pulled back, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. He framed his son’s face with his large hands. “Who on earth told you I was embarrassed?”
Matteo hesitated. He looked past his father’s shoulder, down to the bottom of the staircase where Vanessa was now standing, looking pale and terrified.
That single look was enough.
Luca didn't turn around. He didn't need to. His expression became completely still, the warmth draining from his face, replaced by the terrifying, cold calculation that had built his empire.
Before Luca could speak, Matteo looked down at the box again and asked another question.
“Dad?”
“Yes, Matteo.”
“Can we still finish Grandpa’s garage tomorrow morning?”
Luca frowned, clearly caught off guard by the question. “Of course we can. Saturday morning, just like always.”
The boy looked utterly confused. His brow wrinkled. “But Vanessa said tomorrow it won’t be ours anymore.”
Nobody moved. Not the guests, not me, and certainly not Vanessa. The air in the room felt thick enough to choke on.
Luca slowly stood up. He turned his body, his eyes locking onto his fiancée at the bottom of the stairs. “What does that mean?”
Vanessa went stark white. She took a step backward, bumping into a stone pillar. “Matteo misunderstood me, Luca. He’s just confused.”
“No, I didn't,” Matteo said, his voice surprisingly firm for a twelve-year-old.
The boy reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a folded piece of bright yellow paper.
“I found this taped to the front of Grandpa’s workbench when I went to get the wood today,” Matteo said, handing it to his father.
Luca took the paper. He unfolded it. I watched his eyes track down the page, his jaw tightening so hard I thought his teeth might shatter.
At the top in bold black letters, it read: DEMOLITION ORDER — EFFECTIVE 8:00 A.M. SATURDAY.
And at the bottom, printed clearly next to the authorized owner’s signature line, was Luca Moretti’s name.
May you like
Luca stared at the signature. It was a perfect forgery. He slowly lowered the paper and stared at the woman he was supposed to marry.
“I never signed this.”
