Chapter 10 - The Secret in the Waterfront Cellar
The Syndicate High Council immediately stripped the Bellini family of all territory, assets, and protection. Marco Bellini was dragged away in zip-ties by Don Falcone's enforcers to face underworld justice.
But the night was not over.
"Boss," Daniel whispered, rushing over to us on the VIP terrace as the gala cleared out. "We intercepted an encrypted distress signal from Vanessa's personal phone before the lockdown. It was routed to a private medical facility near the Lake Michigan docks."
Luca's eyes narrowed. "A medical facility?"
"The same doctor who signed Matteo's false death certificate twelve years ago is listed as the property owner," Daniel reported grimly. "Boss... Matteo might still be there."
Luca turned to me, his jaw clenched tight. "Claire, I need to go to that warehouse. I need to know if my brother is still alive."
"I'm coming with you," I said without a second of hesitation.
"It could be a trap," Luca warned, his eyes searching mine. "Bellini’s remaining loyalists might be defending that facility to the death."
I reached out, resting my uninjured hand gently against his cheek. "You kept me safe all night, Luca. I'm not leaving your side now."
A fierce, protective warmth flared in his eyes. He took my hand, kissing the center of my palm, before turning to Daniel. "Call the strike team. We move on the docks now."
Twenty minutes later, a convoy of four armored Moretti SUVs pulled up outside a derelict, heavily guarded brick warehouse on the shores of Lake Michigan. Fog rolled off the dark water, wrapping the building in a ghostly shroud.
Luca’s tactical team breached the perimeter in seconds, dismantling the outer guards with silenced precision.
Luca, Daniel, and I entered the building, moving down a long, sterile corridor lit by flickering fluorescent tubes. The smell of antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, and old sea air was overwhelming.
At the very end of the hall, behind a reinforced steel security door, sat a private medical room equipped with life support monitors, clean linens, and a wall of medical charts.
Lying in the center bed was a man.
He had Luca’s dark hair, his strong jawline, and the distinct Moretti features—though his face was weathered by twelve years of isolation and immobility.
His eyes were open. Dark, intelligent, and fiercely alive.
Luca stopped dead in his tracks. His gun slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly against the linoleum floor.
"Matteo..." Luca choked out, his voice breaking into a ragged sob.
The man in the bed slowly turned his head. A faint, trembling smile touched his lips as he looked at his younger brother.
"You're late, Luca," Matteo rasped, his voice weak from years of disuse, but filled with unmistakable warmth. "Father always said... you took too long... to solve his puzzles."
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Luca rushed to the bedside, dropping to his knees and wrapping his arms around his long-lost brother, weeping openly for the first time in his life.
I stood by the doorway, tears of pure joy streaming down my face as the ghost of the firstborn son finally came home.
