Chapter 3 - The Cold War Behind Closed Doors
Downstairs in the grand ballroom, the engagement dinner was winding down to its final, glittering conclusion.
Vanessa stood beneath the crystal chandelier, holding court among her wealthy socialite friends. Her diamond-encrusted bracelet sparkled under the lights as she gesticulated dramatically.
“Oh, Luca is simply overly protective of family artifacts,” Vanessa was telling the mayor’s wife with a rehearsed, airy giggle. “The maid was entirely incompetent—clumsy girl dropped the entire box down the corridor stairs. I told Luca we must replace the lower-tier staff with professionally trained agency workers before the wedding.”
“An excellent idea, my dear,” murmured Arthur Bellini, Vanessa’s father, swirling a glass of fifty-year-old scotch. Arthur was a portly, silver-haired man with cold, calculating eyes that had spent three decades laundering money through legitimate freight operations. “The Moretti estate needs a woman’s refined touch. It has been run like a military fortress for far too long.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Arthur.”
Luca’s voice smooth as melted dark chocolate, cut through the circle.
Vanessa turned with a radiant smile, stepping smoothly into Luca’s side and sliding her arm through his. “Darling! I was wondering where you disappeared to. Did you return your mother’s gown to storage?”
“I did,” Luca replied, looking down at her with an expression that looked, to any outsider, like profound adoration. “In fact, I examined the cedar chest very thoroughly.”
Vanessa’s fingers twitched against his jacket sleeve. “Did you?”
“Yes. It’s fascinating how dust settles over six years,” Luca said conversationally, signaling a waiter for two flutes of vintage Dom Pérignon. “You can see exactly which items have been moved, which locks have been tampered with... and which items have gone missing.”
Arthur Bellini’s eyes narrowed slightly over his glass. “Luca, my boy, surely you aren't obsessing over old household inventory on the night of your engagement?”
“Not obsessing, Arthur. Simply... auditing,” Luca replied with a calm smile. He handed one glass to Vanessa. “To family legacies. And to the debts that are finally coming due.”
Vanessa clinked her glass against his, though her hand was noticeably less steady than it had been an hour earlier. “To us, darling.”
As the last of the external guests were ushered out by the security detail, Arthur and Vanessa lingered in the private receiving parlor. Vanessa kicked off her designer heels with a sigh of relief.
“Thank god they’re gone. Luca, we need to talk about that maid, Hannah.”
Luca sat in the high-backed leather wing chair behind his desk, pouring himself three fingers of bourbon. “What about her?”
“She’s completely unstable,” Vanessa said, pacing across the room. “She made an absolute scene in front of our investors tonight. I want her fired first thing in the morning. In fact, I’ve already contacted my father’s attorney to draft a non-disclosure agreement and a severance package that forbids her from speaking to anyone about tonight.”
“There’s no need for an NDA,” Luca said smoothly, taking a slow sip of his drink.
“Why? Have you already dismissed her?”
“No. Because Hannah isn’t going anywhere.”
Vanessa stopped pacing, her manicured brows knitting together in sudden fury. “What is that supposed to mean? Luca, I am going to be the mistress of this house in four weeks. I will not have an insolent, thieving maid walking around glaring at me!”
“Thieving?” Luca repeated the word with delicate precision. “That’s an interesting accusation, Vanessa. What exactly did Hannah steal?”
“She was caught rummaging through your mother’s personal storage!” Vanessa hissed.
“No,” Luca said, setting his glass down on the mahogany desk with a dull, heavy thud. “Hannah was carrying a box that you unlocked with a duplicate key you forged three months ago.”
The temperature in the parlor plummeted.
Arthur Bellini set his drink down. “Luca. Watch your tone with my daughter.”
Luca didn’t even look at Arthur. His eyes remained locked on Vanessa, whose face had lost every shred of its rosy, drunken warmth.
“Susan Hart has a very lovely voice on the phone, Vanessa,” Luca stated quietly. “She was remarkably cooperative once Daniel explained what happens to auction houses that traffic in stolen Moretti heirlooms.”
Vanessa took a step back, her throat working convulsively. “Luca... she’s lying. That woman is a fraud—”
“The cashmere coats in Milan,” Luca continued, ticking off his fingers with deadly calm. “The emerald-clasped silver evening bag in her Manhattan vault. And the handwritten recipe journal.”
Arthur stepped forward, his voice dropping into a harsh, mob-boss growl. “Luca, this is an insult. My daughter doesn't need to steal trinkets. If she sold a few old rags to clear space for modern furniture, it was to do you a favor!”
Luca finally looked up at Arthur Bellini. The look in his eyes was so merciless, so ancient and lethal, that the older man instinctively took half a step backward.
“My mother’s wedding gown is not a rag, Arthur. And the recipe book was not just a collection of meals.”
Luca leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.
“It was where my father recorded the secret bank routing numbers for our overseas logistics fleet. The numbers that were wiped from our servers the night my Uncle Salvatore was assassinated.”
Vanessa gasped, clutching her throat.
Arthur’s hand instinctively drifted toward the inside of his tailored suit jacket—toward his concealed shoulder holster.
Before his fingers could even touch the lapel, the heavy double doors of the study flew open.
May you like
Four of Luca’s top enforcers, armed with suppressed submachine guns, stepped into the room, their weapons trained squarely on Arthur’s chest.
“You’re not going to draw that weapon, Arthur,” Luca whispered. “Because if you do, your daughter will watch you bleed out onto my mother’s favorite Persian rug.”
