Chapter 2 - The Secret Carved In Platinum
The rain hit the reinforced glass of Luca Moretti’s black Escalade like thrown gravel.
The city of Chicago blurred into smeared streaks of red and yellow tail lights.
I sat in the back leather seat, my knuckles white against my canvas satchel.
Inside that satchel was my uncle’s brass jeweler’s loupe.
A pair of precision steel tweezers.
A handheld electronic diamond tester.
And my uncle’s old field notebook.
Beside me sat Luca Moretti.
He hadn't spoken a single word since we walked out of the mansion.
His face looked like it had been carved from cold tombstone granite.
In the front seat, Ray drove.
His hands on the steering wheel were steady now, but his jaw remained locked tight.
In the passenger seat sat Daniel, holding a suppressed semi-automatic pistol across his knees.
Luca stared straight out into the dark storm.
“Emma.”
His deep voice cut through the hum of the engine.
“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Your uncle was Thomas Reed?”
I blinked in surprise.
“You knew him?”
Luca turned his head toward me slowly.
“My father had three men he trusted with our family's secrets.”
“A priest.”
“His driver, Ray.”
“And a gemologist named Thomas Reed.”
A cold chill crawled up the back of my neck.
“Uncle Thomas never spoke about his clients.”
“That was why he lived to be sixty-eight,” Luca replied flatly.
He leaned forward, pulling the small zip-lock bag containing the switched ring from his inner coat pocket.
He dropped it onto my lap.
“Examine the inner band again.”
I pulled out my ten-power loupe, screwed the brass lens into my eye socket, and switched on the mini LED light.
I tilted the heavy ring toward the light beam.
Earlier, in the dining room, I had only focused on the stone and the soldered prong.
Now, my gaze swept across the inner curve of the platinum shank.
There was the hallmark stamp: PLAT 950.
And right beside it, etched so faintly it looked like a hairline scratch, was a maker's mark.
A tiny crossed hammer and chisel.
My breath caught in my throat.
“That’s my uncle’s maker's mark,” I whispered.
“Keep reading,” Luca said, his voice dropping into dangerous darkness.
I turned the ring two millimeters.
Beneath the maker's mark were four microscopic numbers stamped into the cold metal.
1 9 9 4.
The year Luca’s mother died.
And right after the date, two Latin letters:
V. C.
My hands began to tremble.
“What does V. C. mean, Mr. Moretti?”
Luca didn't answer immediately.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold lighter, flicking the flame open and closed with a metallic snap.
“Victor Corvallis.”
Ray sucked in a sharp breath from the front seat.
“Corvallis?” the old driver gasped, glancing through the rear-view mirror. “Boss, Corvallis was supposed to have drowned in Lake Michigan thirty years ago!”
“That was the story my father told the Commission,” Luca said coldly.
“That was the story that let everyone sleep at night.”
Luca turned his gaze back to me.
“Vanessa didn't just steal a ring to pay off gambling debts, Emma.”
“She gave my diamond to Hector Corvallis. Victor’s son.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
“Why would she do that?”
“Because Hector told her that if she didn't deliver three hundred thousand dollars in untraceable stones, he would release my mother’s letter to the five families.”
“What does the letter say?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
Luca looked down at his own leather gloves.
“It says that my father didn't run this city by strength.”
“It says he bought the Moretti empire with the blood of his own wife.”
The Escalade swung violently around a corner, splashing muddy rainwater across the curb.
We pulled onto a deserted industrial road running parallel to the Chicago River.
Decaying brick warehouses lined the water like rusted teeth.
Ray killed the headlights.
The vehicle rolled to a smooth stop behind a row of abandoned shipping containers.
Fifty yards ahead, a solitary halogen bulb flickered above an open loading dock.
Two black sedans were parked outside.
Four men in heavy wool coats stood under the corrugated metal roof, smoking cigarettes.
Daniel racked the slide of his weapon with a sharp clack.
“There are six inside, boss. Maybe eight.”
Luca reached down beneath his seat and pulled out a heavy black pistol.
He checked the magazine with a practiced, fluid motion.
“Emma,” he said, looking at me.
“Yes, sir?”
“You stay behind Daniel. If a single shot is fired, you drop flat onto the concrete.”
“Why did you bring me here, Mr. Moretti?”
Luca met my eyes in the dim green glow of the dashboard.
“Because Hector Corvallis has the real diamond.”
“And when I put a gun to his head, I need someone who can verify whether the stone he hands me is genuine—or another trick.”
May you like
He opened the heavy door into the pouring rain.
“Let's go.”
