Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the Firstborn Son
The library was so silent you could hear the rain beginning to lash against the leaded glass windows.
Luca didn't move. He stood before Vanessa like a statue carved out of dark granite, his broad chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. But beneath that iron control, I could see the violent storm raging in his eyes.
"Matteo is dead," Luca said. The words came out flat, cold, and absolute. "I stood by his grave twenty years ago. I watched them lower his casket into the family vault."
"You watched them bury an empty box, Luca," Vanessa whispered, trembling against the bookshelf. "Your father staged the entire funeral. He paid the coroner, he sealed the records, and he made sure the city believed the Moretti heir was dead."
Luca turned his head toward Daniel. "Bring the car around. We're going to Cicero."
"Boss," Daniel hesitated, his hand resting near his holster. "What about Miss Bellini? And the guests?"
"Keep the guests comfortable in the ballroom. No phones, no leaving until I say so. Take Vanessa down to the holding room beneath the garage. Station four guards at the door." Luca's gaze shifted to me, lingering on the thick bandage wrapped around my swollen wrist. "Claire is coming with us."
My breath hitched. "Sir?"
"You found the key," Luca said, stepping toward me. He took a heavy black wool overcoat from the coat rack and draped it gently over my shoulders, shielding me from the draft. "You were injured in this house because of what my father hid. You are a witness to whatever happens next."
"I'm just a housekeeper, Mr. Moretti," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"You're the only person in this house who told me the truth tonight," he replied softly. His dark eyes held mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary, a flash of something fierce and protective burning beneath his icy demeanor. "Come."
Ten minutes later, we were tearing through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago in Luca's armored black SUV. Daniel was at the wheel, his eyes constantly scanning the rear-view mirrors for tails. Luca sat in the back with me, the tarnished brass key marked 17 resting heavy in his palm.
Outside, neon signs blurred through the sheets of rain. Cicero was an industrial wasteland of rusted warehouses, rail yards, and forgotten shipping depots.
"Your wrist," Luca said suddenly, breaking the heavy silence. "Is the pain medication helping?"
I looked down at my lap. The ache was still a dull, throbbing drumbeat, but the heavy overcoat smelled of his cologne—sandalwood, rain, and leather—and somehow that made the pain bearable. "It's better, Mr. Moretti. Thank you."
"When this is over, you will see the best orthopedic surgeon in the state. And your mother's property taxes have already been settled."
My head snapped up. "What?"
Luca didn't look at me; his eyes were fixed on the rainy road ahead. "Vanessa threatened your family home. Daniel overheard the audio feed from the library security microphones before dinner. The city received a wire transfer twenty minutes ago. The deed to your mother's house is clear and unencumbered."
Tears pricked the backs of my eyes. "Mr. Moretti... I don't know what to say."
"Don't thank me," he said roughly. "Nobody threatens the people under my protection. Ever."
The SUV slowed down, turning into a narrow alley lined with chain-link fences topped with razor wire. A weathered sign read: Cicero Secure Vaults & Storage.
Daniel killed the headlights. The facility looked completely abandoned, save for a single flickering floodlight above a heavy iron gate. Daniel handed Luca a silenced pistol, which Luca slid smoothly into his inner jacket pocket without breaking stride.
"Wait here, Claire," Luca instructed as he stepped out into the downpour.
"No," I said, finding my voice and pushing the heavy car door open. "You said I was a witness. I'm coming with you."
Luca looked at me through the rain, his jaw tight. For a second, I thought he would order me back inside, but then a faint, grim smirk touched the corner of his lips. "Stay behind me."
We moved through the maze of corrugated metal storage units until we reached the deep end of the facility. The air smelled of wet rust, engine oil, and old dust.
Unit 17 was a reinforced steel roll-up door secured with a heavy commercial padlock.
Luca inserted the brass key. It slipped into the keyway with a smooth, oiled click that proved the lock had been maintained recently. He twisted it. The heavy shackle popped open.
Daniel gripped the handle and shoved the steel door upward. It rolled up with a deafening rattle, revealing a pitch-black concrete room.
Daniel clicked on his high-powered tactical flashlight, cutting a beam through the thick, swirling dust.
The unit wasn't filled with stolen cash, drugs, or guns.
In the center of the room sat an old wooden desk, a steel filing cabinet, and a single hospital bed with clean, neatly folded sheets. On the desk was an antique cassette player, a stack of medical charts, and a large black leather binder.
Luca stepped forward, his boots echoing in the hollow space. He approached the desk and picked up the top medical chart.
His knuckles turned white as he read the name on the tab: Matteo Moretti - Patient #04.
"He was alive," Luca whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion I had never heard in him before. "When they told me he was dead... he was here."
I stepped closer, looking at the photographs pinned to the bulletin board above the desk. There were dozens of surveillance pictures. Pictures of Luca as a young boy playing in the estate gardens. Pictures of Luca graduating from college. Pictures of Luca taking over the family business after his father died.
All of them had been taken from a distance. By someone who had watched him grow up from the shadows.
"Look at this, Boss," Daniel said, pointing the flashlight at the steel filing cabinet.
The lock on the cabinet was broken. The metal around the handle was bent, bearing fresh scratches and crowbar marks.
Luca yanked the drawers open. They were completely empty—except for a single torn page left in the bottom.
Luca picked up the torn scrap of paper. I looked over his shoulder.
Written on the page was a list of names and dates. At the top of the list was Antonio Moretti. Below it was Matteo Moretti.
And at the very bottom, written in fresh, dark red ink, was a single name:
Luca Moretti.
May you like
Beside Luca's name was a date stamped in bold: Tonight.
Before Luca could react, the screech of tires echoed from the alley outside, followed by the deafening crack of automatic gunfire tearing through the metal walls of the storage unit.
