Chapter 7 - The Broken DiamondMy apartment was tiny.
A fourth-floor walk-up above an old bakery.
The scent of flour and damp wood filled the narrow stairwell.
Luca barely fit through my front door.
He had to duck to avoid the overhead light fixture.
His broad shoulders made my living room look like a dollhouse.
Michael collapsed onto my second-hand sofa.
Marco stood by the window.
He peeled back the cheap floral curtains with the tip of his gun.
“Alley is clear,” Marco reported.
“Put the kettle on,” Luca said.
He sat on my wooden kitchen chair.
The wood groaned under his weight.
He unbuttoned his soaked linen shirt.
A four-inch gash ran across his left ribs.
The skin was torn, leaking dark red onto his pale abdomen.
“I have a first-aid kit,” I said quickly.
I ran to the bathroom.
I grabbed rubbing alcohol, sterile gauze, and needle-and-thread from my sewing basket.
When I returned, Luca looked at the sewing kit.
He gave a dry chuckle.
“You’re going to stitch me up with blue thread, Emma?”
“It's nylon,” I said, opening the alcohol bottle.
“It holds.”
I knelt beside his chair.
My hands were shaking.
He looked down at me.
His dark eyes were unblinking.
“Do it,” he said softly.
I poured the alcohol directly onto the open wound.
Luca didn't make a sound.
His abdominal muscles turned to iron.
His fingers gripped the edge of my kitchen table until the wood groaned.
A single bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
“You’re tougher than my generals,” Luca muttered.
“I grew up in South Boston, Mr. Moretti,” I said, threading the needle.
“Maids aren't made of glass.”
I drove the needle through the skin.
One stitch.
Two.
Three.
He watched my hands work.
He didn't flinch again.
“Why did you speak up tonight?” Luca asked quietly.
His breath smelled of bourbon and rain.
“At the dinner.”
I pulled the knot tight.
“Because Michael didn't do it.”
“You could have kept your mouth shut. Vanessa would have given you a five-thousand-dollar tip to disappear.”
I snipped the thread with my kitchen scissors.
I looked up into his dark eyes.
“I don't like liars, Mr. Moretti.”
“Call me Luca.”
The room felt suddenly very warm.
His face was inches from mine.
The danger radiating from him wasn't hostile.
It was magnetic.
Michael cleared his throat from the couch.
He held up my cheap laptop.
“Boss. We’re in.”
Luca stood up, pulling his bloody shirt back over his broad chest.
He walked over to the coffee table.
I followed him.
Michael had plugged the ledger drive into my laptop.
Lines of encrypted data cascaded down the small screen.
“The offshore transfer was queued three hours ago,” Michael explained.
“Eighty million dollars from the Moretti logistics reserve.”
“Destination?” Luca asked.
“A private shell corporation registered in Panama.”
Michael pointed to the signature block on the screen.
“Authorized by digital signature: L. Moretti.”
“My biometric key,” Luca growled.
“How did they get it?”
“Vanessa,” I said immediately.
Both men turned to look at me.
“Explain,” Luca said.
I pointed to the thumbprint authentication log.
“The timestamp on the authorization was 8:45 p.m.”
I looked at Luca.
“Where were you at 8:45?”
Luca froze.
His expression turned dark.
“I was in the parlor. Vanessa brought me a scotch.”
“She spiked it,” Michael whispered.
“No,” Luca said slowly.
“She kissed me. She held my hand against her cheek.”
He looked down at his right thumb.
“She pressed my finger against a silicone duplicator on her palm.”
Marco spat on the floor.
“That snake.”
“The money moves in three hours,” Michael said frantically.
“When the Zurich banks open at 9:00 a.m. their time.”
Luca slammed his fist onto my kitchen counter.
The cheap formica cracked.
“We can't stop the bank wire without the physical decryption key,” Michael said.
“Where is the key?” Luca asked.
I squinted at the code on the screen.
A hardware serial number appeared at the bottom of the script.
“It's not in Zurich,” I murmured.
Luca stepped closer.
“Where is it, Emma?”
“The hardware dongle is currently pinging an internal network,” I said.
I traced the IP address through the hotel's old diagnostic protocol.
“It's at Don Bellini’s private marina on Lake Michigan.”
Luca smiled.
It was the most terrifying smile I had ever seen.
May you like
“Marco,” Luca said quietly.
“Wake up the heavy crew. We’re going fishing.”
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