Chapter 3 – THE MONSTER IN THE FOYER

I threw myself into Teresa’s bedroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut. My trembling hands fumbled with the brass deadbolt, but I managed to click it into place just as another volley of gunfire erupted downstairs.

Teresa bolted upright in bed, clutching the duvet to her chest. Her eyes were wide with terror.

“Lucy! What’s happening? Where is Luca?” she cried, her frail voice shaking.

“He’s outside,” I lied, trying to sound calm while my heart hammered against my ribs. “Stay away from the door, Mrs. Moretti. Get into the bathroom.”

I didn’t wait for her to move. I grabbed her arm, pulled her out of bed, and guided her quickly into the adjoining marble bathroom. It had no windows and thick walls. It was the safest place we could be.

“Sit in the tub,” I instructed gently.

She did as she was told, curling into a small ball against the cold porcelain, her hands shaking violently.

Outside the bedroom, the mansion had turned into a warzone.

I pressed my ear against the heavy oak door, listening desperately.

I heard men shouting. The heavy thud of boots on the grand staircase.

“Spread out! Find the old woman!” a gravelly voice yelled.

It wasn’t Marcus. It wasn’t any of Luca’s men.

They were coming up.

I looked around the bedroom frantically. I was just a maid. I didn’t have a weapon. I grabbed the heavy brass lamp from the nightstand, my knuckles white as I gripped the cord.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway.

They stopped right outside Teresa’s door.

The brass handle rattled violently.

“It’s locked!” a man shouted.

“Kick it in!” another ordered.

The door shuddered, the wood splintering around the deadbolt.

The hinges groaned. It wouldn’t survive another kick.

I raised the brass lamp, holding my breath, ready to swing at whoever came through.

Suddenly, a loud, familiar voice roared from the end of the hallway.

“Hey!”

It was Luca.

Three rapid gunshots deafened me, fired so close to the door I could feel the vibration through the wood.

A heavy body slammed against the outside of the door, then slid slowly to the floor.

“Clear!” Marcus’s voice bellowed seconds later.

“Lucy!” Luca shouted, banging his fist against the wood. “Open the door!”

I dropped the lamp and scrambled to unlock the deadbolt.

I yanked the door open.

Luca stood there, breathing heavily, his suit jacket off, revealing a white dress shirt stained with blood. It wasn’t his blood.

Two of Carlo Bellini’s men lay motionless on the hallway carpet.

“Are you hurt?” Luca demanded, scanning me rapidly.

“No. We’re okay. Your mother is in the bathroom.”

Luca let out a harsh breath, stepping into the room.

Marcus appeared behind him, reloading an assault rifle. The massive security chief looked grim.

“Boss, they’ve breached the perimeter,” Marcus reported tightly. “Carlo sent at least twenty men. They took out the front gate guards before we even knew they were here. Vanessa must have tipped them off about the shift change.”

Luca’s jaw clenched. “Where is Carlo?”

“He’s in the foyer. He’s demanding to see you.”

Luca looked at the bathroom door. He walked over, opening it gently.

Teresa looked up from the bathtub, tears streaming down her face.

“Luca,” she sobbed.

He knelt beside the tub, taking her trembling hands.

“I’ve got you, Mom,” Luca promised. “Nobody is going to hurt you.”

He stood up, turning back to me.

“Stay with her, Lucy. Do not leave this room.”

“Luca, what are you going to do?” I asked, terrified.

“I’m going to go talk to the man who ruined my engagement,” Luca said coldly.

He walked out of the room, Marcus right behind him.

I locked the door again, sinking to the floor beside the bathtub.

Downstairs, the gunfire had stopped. A suffocating silence fell over the mansion, far more terrifying than the noise.

I strained to listen.

Faintly, I could hear voices echoing from the grand foyer.

I crawled to the bedroom door and pressed my ear against the splintered wood.

“You’re a bold man, Luca,” a deep, raspy voice echoed up the stairwell. Carlo Bellini.

“And you’re a dead man if you don’t leave my house,” Luca replied smoothly.

Carlo laughed, a dry, grating sound.

“You disrespected my daughter in front of the families,” Carlo said. “You broke an alliance that took my brother five years to build. Did you really think I was just going to let that slide?”

“Your daughter threatened my mother,” Luca shot back. “That breaks the alliance.”

“Your mother,” Carlo scoffed. “Teresa Moretti. The saint of Chicago.”

A heavy pause hung in the air.

“Why did you come here, Carlo?” Luca demanded. “You didn’t bring twenty men just to avenge Vanessa’s bruised ego.”

“No,” Carlo admitted. “I came for what belongs to me.”

“Nothing in this house belongs to you.”

“Really?” Carlo asked, his voice dripping with venom. “Then why did your mother keep the photograph?”

My breath hitched.

The faded Polaroid. Carlo knew about it.

“You mean the picture of you harassing a married woman thirty years ago?” Luca asked coldly.

Carlo laughed again, harder this time.

“Harassing? Is that what she told Antonio? Is that why he tried to kill me?”

Carlo’s footsteps echoed against the marble floor as he paced.

“Teresa wasn’t just some diner waitress, Luca,” Carlo sneered. “She was mine. Long before Antonio swept in and played the hero.”

“You’re lying,” Luca growled.

“Am I? Why don’t you ask her about the baby in the picture, Luca? The baby she was holding on my porch?”

Silence.

“Ask her what happened to my son,” Carlo roared, the anger finally breaking through his composed facade.

I covered my mouth, tears springing to my eyes.

The baby in the photograph was Carlo’s son. And Teresa was holding him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luca said, but his voice lacked its usual certainty.

“Thirty years ago, Teresa took my son,” Carlo spat. “She ran away with Antonio. They hid him from me. And tonight, I’m not leaving until I get him back.”

“He’d be thirty years old now,” Luca said. “He’s not here.”

Carlo chuckled darkly.

“Oh, he’s here, Luca. He’s been here the whole time.”

Carlo’s voice dropped to a terrifying whisper.

“Look in a mirror, boy. You really think you look anything like Antonio Moretti?”