Chapter 8 - Lucia's Voice
The silence in the Grand Ballroom was thick enough to suffocate a man.
Men with diamond pinky rings and concealed weapons stared at Luca as if the devil himself had walked through the doors.
Vanessa’s face drained of every drop of color.
She stepped behind her father, her emerald dress rustling against the podium.
“Luca...” she choked out.
Luca didn't say a word.
He walked down the center aisle.
His heavy combat boots left wet, bloody prints on the pristine Persian runner.
Every step was slow.
Deliberate.
Terrifying.
Don Carmine of Detroit stood up from his table.
“What is the meaning of this? Vincent told us you were killed in a gas explosion at your compound!”
Luca didn't look at Carmine.
His eyes remained locked on Vincent Bellini’s throat.
“Vincent is an ambitious liar, Carmine.”
Luca reached the edge of the dais.
He stood five feet below Vincent.
“You called a vote of succession, Vincent.”
Vincent recovered his composure.
He leaned heavily on his silver cane, forcing a sneer onto his face.
“The vote is already concluded, boy.”
“The Five Families have unanimously recognized my house as the custodian of the Moretti territory.”
“You are a ghost without an army.”
Luca turned slowly to face the assembly of mafia royalty.
“You voted for a thief.”
Mutters broke out across the room.
Don Falcone of New York leaned forward, his heavy brows furrowing.
“Careful with your words, Luca. We respect the Moretti name, but Vincent presented legal documents.”
“He presented forgeries,” Matteo’s voice boomed from the back of the room.
The old consigliere walked down the aisle.
He carried the gold watch high above his head.
“Thirty-five years ago, Vincent Bellini poisoned Lucia Moretti.”
The room erupted into an uproar.
Men stood up.
Chairs scraped back.
Weapons were touched beneath coats.
“That is slander!” Vincent roared, banging his cane on the wood.
“Matteo has lost his mind! Guards, remove them!”
Ten Bellini enforcers moved forward from the perimeter.
“Stand down!” Falcone bellowed from the center table.
Falcone was the oldest Don in the country.
When Falcone spoke, even the waiters froze.
“Let Matteo speak,” Falcone commanded.
“If an accusation of poison is made before the Commission, it must be answered.”
Matteo stepped onto the dais.
He placed the gold watch directly onto the polished podium in front of Vincent.
“This was Lucia’s watch.”
Matteo pointed a finger at me.
“And this is Emma Sullivan.”
Every eye in the room turned toward me.
I stood straight.
My apron was torn.
My hands were stained.
But I refused to look down.
“Emma is the biological daughter of Thomas Sullivan,” Matteo announced.
“The master clockmaker who was framed by Vincent thirty years ago.”
Vincent laughed, but the laugh was thin and strained.
“What does a common clockmaker have to do with the Moretti throne?”
“Because Luca is not an Antonio Moretti,” Matteo declared.
A collective gasp swept through the hall.
“The real Moretti child died forty-eight hours after birth in Room 317 at St. Catherine’s,” Matteo continued.
“Vincent swapped the dead baby with Clara Sullivan’s newborn son.”
“Luca is Thomas Sullivan’s blood.”
Total pandemonium erupted.
Don Carmine slammed his fist onto the table.
“You put a civilian’s bastard on the Moretti throne for thirty years?!”
“He did it to control him!” I spoke up.
My voice was clear.
It cut through the chaos like a knife through silk.
The room quieted down to look at me.
“Vincent knew Luca had no legitimate mafia claim,” I said, stepping toward the dais.
“He waited until his daughter was engaged to him.”
“Then he planned to expose the fake lineage, strip Luca of his power, and claim Chicago through marriage.”
“And when Vanessa failed to find the proof inside this watch today...”
I pointed straight at Vanessa’s trembling figure.
“...she ordered me to destroy it.”
Vanessa burst into tears.
“Father, do something!” she shrieked.
Vincent’s face twisted into an expression of pure, unbridled malice.
The mask of the dignified statesman dropped completely.
“So what if it's true?” Vincent spat.
The entire ballroom went dead silent.
Vincent glared down at the gathered Dons.
“Antonio was weak! His seed was rotten!”
“His real son died gasping for air like a sick puppy!”
“I built this city’s empire with my own hands!”
“I gave you stability for thirty years!”
Vincent raised his cane and pointed the silver tip directly at Luca’s chest.
“He is nothing but a stolen child from a gutter family!”
“He has no blood! He has no right to stand among us!”
Luca looked up at Vincent.
His face was completely calm.
The terrible rage had settled into an icy, impenetrable resolve.
“You're right, Vincent,” Luca said.
His voice carried to every corner of the vast room.
“I don't have Moretti blood.”
He reached into his jacket.
Men tensed.
Luca pulled out the heavy gold signet ring from his pinky finger.
The ring of the Moretti dynasty.
A ring worn by three generations of ruthless tyrants.
Luca dropped the ring onto the floor.
He crushed it beneath the heavy heel of his combat boot.
The gold flattened against the parquet.
“I am not Antonio Moretti’s son.”
Luca raised his head.
“I am Thomas Sullivan’s son.”
“And I am not here to claim a mafia throne.”
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Luca drew his weapon with blinding speed.
“I am here to collect a blood debt.”
