Chapter 9 – THE DRAWING ON THE FLOOR
The heavy oak doors of the mansion closed, shutting out the wailing sirens and the flashing red and blue lights of the police cruisers.
The foyer was a mess of broken porcelain and muddy boot prints from the federal agents. Luca stood near the center of the room, his arm still resting protectively around his father’s shoulders. The absolute relief on Frank’s face was beautiful to witness. The crushing weight of nineteen years of guilt had finally been lifted.
I walked over to the overturned side table to help clean up the mess. As I crouched down to gather the broken shards of the vase, I noticed the piece of paper Vanessa had kicked loose.
It was a child’s drawing, done in faded wax crayons. It depicted a tall stick figure holding hands with a smaller stick figure. Above them, written in the shaky, uneven handwriting of a small child, were the words: Me and Dad.
Down in the bottom corner, it was signed: Luca, Age 6.
I smiled softly, my heart warming at the sight of the innocent drawing. I reached out and picked it up, intending to hand it to Frank.
But as I lifted the paper, it flipped over in my hand.
My smile vanished.
The back of the drawing wasn’t blank. It was covered in neat, typed text, heavily annotated with black ink. The ink looked fresh.
I stood up slowly, the blood draining from my face.
“Luca,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
He turned away from his father, sensing the sudden shift in my tone. He walked over to me, his brow furrowing in concern. “What is it, Natalie? Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said, handing him the drawing. “Look at the back.”
Luca took the paper. His eyes scanned the typed list.
As he read, the color drained from his face. The soft, relieved son vanished, instantly replaced by the cold, calculating mafia boss.
“Where did you find this?” Luca demanded, his voice dropping an octave.
“It fell out from under the side table when Vanessa kicked it,” I replied, my heart starting to race again. “What is it?”
Luca didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Frank. “Dad… did Mom ever mention a list? When she was talking to Agent Bellini nineteen years ago?”
Frank walked over, squinting at the paper in Luca’s hand. He gasped.
“The Bellini Ledger,” Frank whispered, terror creeping back into his voice. “It was a rumor. We thought it was a myth. Thomas Bellini didn’t just investigate our family. He investigated his own people. He kept a master list of every corrupt cop, judge, and federal agent on our payroll, and on the payroll of our rivals. It was his insurance policy.”
Luca stared at the paper. “And Vanessa hid it here. Under a drawing of me and you.”
“She knew if she was caught, the feds would toss the house,” Frank realized, his eyes wide. “She planted it here so the police would find it during the raid. If this list goes public, half the city government goes to prison. And the Moretti family takes the blame for leaking it. It would start a war that would wipe us out.”
Luca’s eyes darted down the list of names.
Suddenly, he stopped breathing.
“Luca?” I asked, stepping closer to him. “What’s wrong?”
Luca slowly looked up from the paper. He looked toward the front doors of the mansion.
“The first name on this list,” Luca said, his voice deadly quiet, “the man who took over Agent Bellini’s corrupt network after he died… is Detective Arthur Miller.”
I frowned, the name sounding vaguely familiar. “Who is that?”
Before Luca could answer, the heavy brass handle of the front door clicked.
The door swung open.
A tall man in a tan trench coat walked into the foyer. He flashed a gold police badge clipped to his belt. He was the lead detective who had just arrested Vanessa outside.
He looked at Luca, then at Frank, and finally at me.
Then, his eyes dropped to the piece of paper in Luca’s hand.
“Detective Miller,” Luca said softly, confirming my worst fear.
Detective Miller didn’t smile. He didn’t offer a polite greeting. He simply reached inside his trench coat and unholstered his service weapon, a heavy black Glock.
He aimed it directly at Luca’s chest.
“You shouldn’t have picked that up, Mr. Moretti,” Detective Miller said, his voice echoing in the ruined foyer.
The nightmare wasn’t over. It had just walked through the front door.
