Chapter 9 – THE UNFINISHED BUSINESS
The warmth of the dining room evaporated instantly.
The clinking of crystal glasses and the low murmur of the Commission bosses faded into white noise as I stared at the bloodstained envelope in Luca’s hand.
“Don’t open it here,” I whispered, glancing at my mother. She was smiling, talking to an older Don seated to her left. She finally had her dignity back. I couldn’t let this destroy her night.
Luca nodded subtly. He excused himself from the table, and I followed him out into the dimly lit hallway.
“Marco was supposed to vanish,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. “He killed Roberto. The Bellinis are finished. Who would want him dead?”
“Nature abhors a vacuum,” Luca replied grimly, tearing the top of the envelope. “With Roberto gone, the Bellini territory is up for grabs. Someone is making a play for it. And they’re starting by cleaning up loose ends.”
He pulled out a single, heavy piece of parchment.
It wasn’t a letter.
It was a photograph.
Luca stared at it for a long time, a muscle feathering in his jaw.
“What is it?” I asked, reaching out.
He handed it to me.
It was a polaroid picture of a man lying dead in the trunk of a car—Marco. But that wasn’t what made the blood freeze in my veins.
Resting on Marco’s chest in the photograph was an object.
A silver pocket watch.
“The watch,” I breathed. “The one my mother hid. The one with your father’s confession.”
Luca checked his inner jacket pocket. He pulled out his hand, empty.
“It was stolen,” Luca said, his voice dangerously quiet. “Someone got into my private safe upstairs.”
“Who? We just cleared the house of traitors!”
Luca looked back at the dining room doors.
“Only the Commission bosses and their personal guards are allowed in the house tonight. One of them is making a move against me.”
He pointed to the bottom of the photograph. Written in elegant, cursive black ink were three words:
The debts remain.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Luca’s eyes darkened. “When my father died, Roberto Bellini forged the accounting books. He claimed my father died owing the Chicago outfit ten million dollars. I’ve refused to pay it for twenty years, claiming it was a lie.”
“And the confession in the watch proves it was a lie,” I realized.
“Exactly,” Luca said. “But with the watch stolen, and Marco dead, I have no proof. If the Chicago outfit wants their money, they’ll use this as an excuse to go to war with us.”
Before we could form a plan, a loud commotion erupted from the front foyer.
Luca drew his weapon and stepped in front of me as we hurried toward the entrance.
The heavy mahogany doors were wide open. The guards stationed outside were lying on the ground, groaning in pain.
Standing in the center of the foyer was a woman.
She looked to be in her late sixties, dressed in an immaculate, fur-lined black coat. Her silver hair was swept up into a severe bun, and her piercing blue eyes scanned the room with absolute disdain.
Behind her stood four massive enforcers, holding assault rifles.
Luca froze, lowering his gun.
“Aunt Carmela?” he said, shock lacing his voice.
The woman turned her icy gaze toward Luca.
“You’ve made a mess of this family, Luca,” Carmela said, her voice dripping with venom. “I leave for a few years to handle our business in Italy, and I come back to find you seating a maid at the head of my brother’s table.”
I stiffened. This was Carmela Moretti. Antonio’s younger sister. The matriarch of the Chicago branch.
“She’s not a maid,” Luca said, stepping forward. “She was Antonio’s—”
“I know exactly what she was,” Carmela spat. “A homewrecker. A peasant who thought she could dilute our bloodline.”
She turned her sharp eyes on me.
“And you. The bastard child.”
“Don’t speak to her like that,” Luca warned, his tone lethal.
Carmela laughed, a dry, humorless sound.
“You think you’re untouchable because you took out Roberto? Roberto was an amateur. But you’ve cost us a lot of money, Luca. And I’ve come to collect.”
“I don’t owe Chicago anything,” Luca said.
Carmela reached into the pocket of her fur-lined coat.
She pulled out the silver pocket watch.
My breath caught.
“You owe us everything,” Carmela said, dropping the watch onto the marble floor. It cracked open, revealing the empty compartment inside.
“Where is the confession?” Luca demanded.
Carmela smiled wickedly.
“I burned it. Your father’s debt to Chicago stands. You have forty-eight hours to pay the ten million. Or we burn this estate to the ground, with your precious maid inside.”
She turned on her heel and walked out into the night.
I looked at the shattered watch on the floor.
“Luca,” I whispered. “We don’t have ten million dollars.”
Luca stared at the broken glass.
“No,” he said softly. “But I know where my father hid it.”
