Chapter 4 – THE BLOOD ON THE PEACH PIE

The bank vault was dead silent, save for the ragged, terrified breathing of Vanessa.

“The Rossi bloodline returns tonight,” Luca repeated softly, his voice devoid of all emotion, a terrifying calm before an inevitable storm.

He hung up the phone and looked at Vanessa. She was trembling violently, her arms wrapped around herself, the red satin gown looking stark and foolish in the harsh fluorescent light of the vault.

“Your mother paid them forty-two thousand dollars to keep them away from you,” Luca deduced grimly. “She drained her life savings to pay off her own brother-in-law so he wouldn’t blow your cover before the wedding. But Dominic didn’t want the money. He wanted the Moretti empire. And he’s using you as his Trojan horse.”

“I didn’t know!” Vanessa screamed, dropping to her knees on the cold marble floor. “I swear to God, Luca, I didn’t know I was a Rossi! I thought she was just ashamed of me!”

“She wasn’t ashamed of you, Vanessa,” I said softly, the anger I had felt toward her dissolving into a profound, suffocating pity. “She was terrified for you. She mended her coat and worked in a cafeteria for thirty years so she could stay invisible. So you could stay invisible.”

Vanessa covered her face, a wretched, broken sob tearing from her throat as the realization of her cruelty finally caught up with her. The woman she had humiliated, the woman she had banished to the rain, had sacrificed her entire existence to keep her alive.

“We have to find her,” I pleaded, looking at Luca. “If Dominic Rossi took her, he’s going to kill her.”

“He won’t kill her yet,” Luca said, his mind working with lethal speed. He shoved the adoption papers and the gold pocket watch into his suit jacket. “Mary is his leverage. He knows I won’t execute Vanessa if he holds the woman who raised her hostage. He’s going to use Mary to force a parley.”

He turned to the bank manager. “Arthur, lock the vault. Say nothing of this to anyone.”

We hurried out of the bank and back into the pouring rain. The armored SUV was waiting, the engine idling loudly in the empty financial district.

As we climbed into the back seat, Luca’s radio earpiece crackled to life.

“Boss,” Marco’s voice was tense, strictly professional now. “We have movement at the estate. Four unmarked black SUVs just breached the main gates. They took out the perimeter guards. They’re heavily armed.”

“How many men?” Luca demanded, pulling a heavy, black semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster and checking the magazine.

“At least twenty, sir. They’re storming the ground floor. We’ve locked down the upper levels, but they’re demanding you.”

“Tell the tactical team to hold the grand staircase,” Luca ordered. “Do not engage unless they attempt to breach the second floor. I am five minutes away.”

He clipped the radio off and looked at Vanessa.

“Dominic isn’t waiting for a parley,” Luca said coldly. “He’s taking the house.”

“Luca, please,” Vanessa begged, grabbing his arm. “Don’t let them kill me. I’m not one of them!”

Luca stared at her, the woman he had planned to marry, the woman who was secretly the daughter of the man who murdered his father. The betrayal was absolute, but the blame was complicated.

“You are a victim of your bloodline, Vanessa,” Luca said softly. “But you are also the reason they are inside my house. You will sit quietly in this car until I handle this.”

The SUV tore through the city streets, running red lights, the siren wailing into the rainy night.

When we finally skidded to a halt on the gravel driveway of the Moretti mansion, the scene was chaotic. The massive mahogany front doors were blown wide open. The sounds of shouting and shattering glass echoed from the grand foyer.

“Stay in the car,” Luca ordered us both.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He threw the door open and sprinted toward the entrance, a phantom of vengeance in the rain.

I sat frozen in the back seat next to Vanessa. She was rocking back and forth, weeping silently, her hands covering her ears to block out the sounds of the violence inside.

But I couldn’t sit still.

I looked at the massive, dark house. My friends were in there. The kitchen staff, the maids, the people I had worked beside for two years. Dominic Rossi wasn’t going to spare them. To a mafia boss, the staff were just collateral damage.

I grabbed the door handle.

“What are you doing?” Vanessa gasped, grabbing my coat. “He told us to stay!”

“My friends are in there,” I said, pulling my coat free. “And Mary might be in there too.”

I slipped out of the SUV and ran toward the side entrance of the house—the servant’s door near the kitchens. It was dark, the security lights shot out, but I knew the path by heart.

I slipped my keycard into the reader. It beeped softly, and the heavy metal door clicked open.

I stepped into the dimly lit kitchen.

The room was a disaster. Pots and pans were scattered across the floor, the massive stainless steel refrigerators dented from gunfire.

But sitting on the large center island, completely untouched amidst the chaos, was the glass baking dish containing Mary’s peach pie.

I stared at it, the absurdity of the domestic object in a war zone making my head spin.

Before I could move toward it, the swinging doors from the dining room burst open.

A massive man in tactical gear stumbled into the kitchen, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He wasn’t one of Luca’s men. He was a Rossi mercenary.

He saw me instantly.

He raised his assault rifle, pointing it directly at my chest.

“Don’t move, little girl,” he growled, spitting blood onto the pristine white tile.

I froze, my hands raised, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

“Where is the basement access?” the mercenary demanded, stepping closer. “Where are the security servers?”

“I don’t know,” I lied, my voice shaking. “I’m just a maid.”

He sneered, stepping closer, raising the butt of his rifle to strike me.

But before he could swing, a heavy, cast-iron frying pan swung out from the shadows behind the pantry door and slammed brutally into the side of the mercenary’s head.

The man collapsed to the floor like a felled tree, unconscious before he hit the tiles.

Standing behind him, breathing heavily, holding the frying pan with both hands, was Mary Bellini.

Her blue coat was torn, her face bruised, but her tired brown eyes burned with a fierce, motherly fire.

“I told them,” Mary panted, dropping the pan, “I make a mean peach pie. But my swing is even better.”