Chapter 3 - Blood on the Ivory Floor
The gunfire outside the vault suddenly stopped.
The deafening silence returned.
Smoke filled the small concrete room.
Luca didn't flinch at the revelation.
He just stared at the blood pouring from his own side.
“Say that again,” he whispered.
“The DNA match is zero percent,” I read through the dim light.
“The infant registered in Room 317 shared no bloodline with Don Antonio Moretti.”
Daniel rushed back into the vault.
His weapon was smoking.
“Sniper ran. He took a bullet to the shoulder, but he had an extraction driver.”
Daniel looked down and saw the red pool spreading beneath Luca.
“Boss!”
“Shut up,” Luca hissed through clenched teeth.
He forced himself upright against the concrete wall.
“We don't go to a hospital.”
“Boss, that bullet hit your flank,” Daniel argued.
“Every hospital in the tri-state area reports gunshot wounds to the Commission.”
Luca looked straight at me.
“We go back to the estate. Take the west medical wing.”
“Who treats you?” Daniel asked.
Luca’s bloodstained hand reached out and grabbed my wrist.
His grip was still shockingly strong.
“She does.”
I stared at him.
“I am a maid, Mr. Moretti! I fix watches, not humans!”
“You have steady hands,” he breathed.
His eyes were fading.
“And you are the only one who knows the truth.”
Two hours later, we were back in the private wing of the Chicago mansion.
The white marble floor was ruined with drops of dark crimson.
I scrubbed my hands with surgical iodine until they burned.
Luca was lying on the examination table in the private clinic room.
His shirt had been cut away.
The entry wound was jagged, just beneath his ribs.
Daniel stood by the door, a shotgun resting against his thigh.
“Bullet is lodged against the iliac crest,” Daniel said grimly.
“If you touch the artery, he bleeds out in ninety seconds.”
I picked up the stainless steel forceps.
My father’s voice echoed in my head.
Patience, Emma. A millimeter is a mile.
I looked at Luca.
He refused anesthesia.
He held a leather belt between his teeth.
“Do it,” he grunted.
I leaned over the wound.
The smell of copper and antiseptic was overwhelming.
I slid the blunt instrument into the opening.
Luca’s entire body tensed like iron.
Vessels bulged along his neck.
Sweat poured down his temples.
He didn't make a sound.
My fingers didn't shake.
I felt the metallic click deep inside the muscle.
Lead on steel.
I clamped down.
Carefully.
Centimeter by centimeter.
I pulled the deformed slug from his flesh.
It clattered into the stainless steel kidney dish.
Luca spat the leather belt out.
He drew in a long, ragged breath.
“You're good with tools, Sullivan.”
I quickly irrigated the wound and began the sutures.
Fine nylon thread.
Precise, tight stitches.
Just like repairing an antique watch strap.
“Why did the letter have Vincent Bellini’s name on it?” I asked as I tied the third knot.
Luca stared at the white ceiling tiles.
“Because Vincent Bellini was my father’s sworn rival thirty-five years ago.”
“And now his daughter was supposed to marry you,” I murmured.
Luca’s jaw set hard.
“An alliance arranged ten years ago by the syndicate elders.”
“To unite the territories.”
“To prevent a war.”
I tied the final stitch and taped a heavy gauze pad over the wound.
“If you aren't Antonio Moretti’s son, you have no claim to the syndicate.”
Luca slowly sat up.
The color had not returned to his skin, but his eyes were blazing with cold fury.
“I don't need blood to hold a throne. I took this city with lead.”
The door to the medical room flew open.
A guard stumbled inside, clutching his throat.
He collapsed face-first onto the tiles.
A second later, Vincent Bellini walked through the door.
He was in his late fifties.
Impeccably tailored silver suit.
A silver cane in his right hand.
Behind him were four heavily armed men with submachine guns.
Daniel raised his shotgun.
“Lower the gun, Daniel,” Vincent said smoothly.
“Before my men paint the ceiling with your brains.”
Luca didn't move from the table.
He didn't even reach for a weapon.
“You're early for the wedding, Vincent.”
Vincent walked toward the edge of the examination table.
His cane clicked rhythmically against the bloodstained floor.
“Where is my daughter, Luca?”
“She is resting in the cellar.”
Vincent’s smile vanished.
“You put a Bellini in a cellar?”
“I put a traitor where she belongs.”
Vincent chuckled.
A dry, raspy sound.
“She was only trying to protect your feelings, boy.”
“She tried to destroy my mother’s watch.”
“Because your mother was a scheming whore who almost ruined two empires.”
Luca lunged off the table.
His fresh stitches ripped instantly.
Blood soaked through the white gauze.
Vincent’s bodyguards immediately raised their barrels, aiming directly at Luca's head.
Luca stopped an inch from Vincent’s face.
“Speak about my mother again, and I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth.”
Vincent didn't flinch.
He reached into his breast pocket.
He pulled out an antique brass key.
“You went to Milwaukee tonight.”
Luca stayed silent.
“Did you find the box, Luca?”
Vincent’s gaze shifted to me.
He looked at my bloody apron.
He looked at the open medical tray where the DNA paper sat under a metal weight.
Vincent stepped forward and picked up the paper.
“Ah. The truth finally surfaces.”
He tapped the document against his cane.
“Thirty-five years of keeping the secret.”
“Who was the dead boy, Vincent?” Luca demanded.
Vincent smiled.
His teeth were yellowed and sharp.
“The real Luca Moretti was born weak.”
“His lungs never formed properly.”
“He died forty-eight hours after birth.”
Luca’s chest heaved.
“Then who am I?”
Vincent leaned in close.
His voice was a venomous whisper that echoed in the sterile room.
“You were a nameless bastard born to a gutter girl in the adjacent charity ward.”
“Antonio needed an heir to keep his brother from claiming the syndicate.”
“So he paid five million dollars to swap a dead prince for a healthy rat.”
Luca’s expression didn't change, but his pupils dilated with shock.
Vincent turned toward the door.
“By dawn, the syndicate council will see this paper.”
“By noon, you will be stripped of your titles.”
“And by tomorrow night...”
Vincent turned back, his cold eyes sweeping over both of us.
“...my daughter will take control of Chicago as the rightful custodian.”
Vincent gestured to his guards.
“Kill the maid. Leave the bastard alive to watch his kingdom crumble.”
The guard on the left raised his weapon directly at my face.
May you like
Before he could pull the trigger, the lights in the mansion instantly died.
Total, pitch-black darkness swallowed the room.
