Chapter 5 - The Ledger in the Floorboards“Don't move, Luca.”
The voice didn't belong to a mafia hitman.
It was frail.
Old.
The flashlight beam revealed Salvatore Bellini.
Vanessa’s father.
The patriarch of the Bellini syndicate.
He wore an expensive cashmere coat over his silk pajamas.
His silver hair was combed back perfectly.
In his right hand, he held a snub-nosed .38 revolver.
Behind him stood two massive bodyguards with submachine guns.
Michael Torres froze.
Luca didn't flinch.
He didn't even raise his hands.
“Salvatore,” Luca said coldly.
“You’re getting too old for midnight strolls.”
Salvatore smiled thinly.
Gold teeth gleamed in the dim light.
“You were a good boy, Luca. But you were always too rigid.”
“Where is my brother?” Luca demanded.
Salvatore chuckled.
The sound was like dry leaves scraping over concrete.
“Matteo understands modern business. He doesn't complain about federal oversight or moral lines.”
“You used him,” Luca spat.
“He came to me!” Salvatore raised his voice.
“After you took the family throne, he begged for a piece. We faked his death together.”
Salvatore pointed his gun directly at Luca’s forehead.
“And tonight, Matteo takes his rightful seat.”
I watched Salvatore’s feet.
He was standing right above the basement drainage trench.
The metal grate was rusted.
We were standing in the sub-basement.
The boiler release valve was three feet to my left.
A red brass wheel.
Hot steam pressure: four hundred pounds per square inch.
I looked at Luca.
His eyes flicked toward the red wheel.
Then back to me.
He knew what I was looking at.
“You made one mistake, Salvatore,” Luca said, stepping forward.
“I made no mistakes,” the old man sneered.
“You trusted my maid not to check the audit logs.”
Salvatore frowned in confusion.
“What?”
I threw all my weight onto the brass valve.
I spun it counterclockwise with everything I had.
HIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSS!
Superheated steam erupted from the safety pipe.
A blinding cloud of boiling white mist engulfed the room.
Salvatore shrieked in agony as boiling steam scorched his face.
Gunfire erupted blindly into the fog.
Bullets sparked off the iron boiler.
Luca moved like lightning.
He lunged into the mist.
I heard the sickening sound of snapping bone.
A wet thud.
A bodyguard screamed, then choked on his own blood.
Luca dragged me by the collar through the white fog.
“Michael! Move!” Luca roared.
We burst through the delivery exit into the alleyway.
Rain poured down like needles.
A black sedan was already idling at the curb.
The back door flew open.
A burly man with a scar across his cheek leaned out.
Marco.
“Get in! Get in!” Marco yelled.
We dove into the backseat.
Marco slammed the accelerator.
Tires screeched on wet cobblestone.
We shot out of the alley just as bullets shattered the rear window.
Glass rained over my lap.
I was hyperventilating.
My chest burned.
Luca fell back against the seat, clutching his left side.
Blood seeped between his fingers.
Dark.
Heavy.
“Luca!” I screamed.
“I’m fine,” he grunted through clenched teeth.
He looked down at his ruined coat.
Then he reached into his inner pocket.
He pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook.
It was soaked in water and soot.
“Salvatore dropped it when I broke his arm,” Luca breathed heavily.
He handed the black book to me.
“Open it, Emma.”
My trembling fingers flipped through the damp pages.
They were full of dates.
Account numbers.
Bank routing codes in the Cayman Islands.
And on the very last page, a single address was written in bold black ink.
An abandoned meatpacking plant on 35th Street.
Beneath the address was a handwritten note:
“Deliver Luca’s head by sunrise. Matteo.”
Suddenly, Luca’s burner phone buzzed in the cupholder.
The caller ID displayed no number.
Just three letters:
M.O.R.
Luca hit speaker with a bloodied thumb.
May you like
A raspy, metallic voice echoed through the car:
“Hello, little brother. Did you miss me?”
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