Chapter 7 – THE BLUFF

Vanessa’s hand froze. The tiny flame of the Zippo lighter flickered dangerously close to the invisible cloud of vapor hanging over the concrete.

“She’s lying,” Vanessa spat, looking at her father. “She’s a maid. She doesn’t know anything about ventilation.”

“Papa,” one of Bellini’s guards said, his voice trembling as he lowered his rifle. “The air… it’s thick. If she sparks that, the concussive force will turn our organs to liquid.”

Mr. Bellini’s cigar had gone out. He didn’t dare relight it. The smug superiority had entirely melted from his face, replaced by a primal, sweating fear.

“Close the lighter, Vanessa,” Bellini ordered, his voice tight.

“No!” Vanessa shrieked. “We have them! Right here!”

“I said close it!” Bellini roared.

Vanessa’s hand shook. With a sharp clack, she shut the lid.

The collective exhale of twenty men echoed in the cavernous room.

Luca didn’t waste a millisecond.

The moment the flame was gone, he lunged. He didn’t go for his gun. He tackled the guard closest to him, ripping the assault rifle from the man’s hands and smashing the stock into his jaw in one fluid, brutal motion.

Chaos erupted.

The captive Moretti men, realizing the explosives threat was neutralized, fought back. They were zip-tied, but they threw their shoulders into Bellini’s remaining guards, knocking them off balance.

I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, sliding on the slick gasoline, desperate to get out of the line of fire.

Gunshots rang out, deafening in the enclosed space.

I grabbed a discarded utility knife from a workbench and began desperately sawing at the thick plastic zip-ties on the nearest Moretti soldier.

“Thanks, boss,” the soldier grunted as his hands sprang free. He immediately tackled a Bellini guard, disarming him.

Within two minutes, the numbers game reversed. Luca’s men, freed and furious, overpowered the Bellini guards.

Vanessa was pressed against a steel support beam, screaming as a Moretti soldier pinned her arms behind her back.

Luca stood in the center of the room, breathing heavily, a stolen rifle aimed dead at Mr. Bellini’s chest.

Bellini held his hands up, backing toward his leather chair.

“Luca, listen to me,” Bellini pleaded, his voice cracking. “We can make a deal. Fifty-fifty split of the docks. You marry Vanessa, we unite the families like your father wanted!”

“My father wanted you dead,” Luca said, his voice like grinding stones.

He closed the distance, shoving the barrel of the rifle hard under Bellini’s chin.

“You murdered Isabella. You forced my father into a car chase that killed him. You terrorized my uncle. And you tried to burn my cousin alive.”

“Cousin?” Vanessa gasped, struggling against her captor. She stared at me, her eyes wide with shock. “Her?”

“Emily is a Moretti,” Luca said loud enough for every man in the room to hear. “And tonight, the Bellini family ceases to exist.”

Bellini swallowed hard. “You kill me, the Commission in New York will have your head. You can’t just execute a boss without a sit-down.”

“I’m not going to execute you,” Luca said softly.

He lowered the rifle.

Bellini let out a pathetic sigh of relief.

“No,” Luca continued, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “Emily is going to execute your empire.”

Luca tossed the phone to me. The screen was open to a live video call.

On the other end of the line was a distinguished, grey-haired man sitting in a wood-paneled office.

It was Don Rossi. The head of the New York Commission.

“Mr. Rossi,” I said, picking up the phone. My hands were finally steady. “Did you hear everything?”

“Loud and clear, Miss Moretti,” the old man’s voice rasped through the speaker. “Killing a boss’s sister is a violation of the old laws. Stealing from the syndicate is a death sentence.”

Bellini dropped to his knees. “Rossi, please, it’s a setup—”

“Silence,” Rossi snapped. He looked at me through the screen. “The Bellini territory is forfeit. It belongs to the Moretti family now. Do what you must with the traitors, Emily. New York recognizes you.”

The call ended.

I looked at Vanessa, whose arrogant face was finally stained with genuine tears of defeat. Then I looked at her father, a broken, kneeling old man.

“Call the police,” I told Luca’s men. “Leave Bellini’s men tied up for them. Give them the un-redacted police report about my father. Let the law take them for corruption and attempted arson.”

Luca smiled, a real, genuine smile, and nodded.

As the sirens began to wail in the distance, Bellini looked up at me. His eyes were hollow, but a vindictive sneer twisted his lips.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, heavy brass key. He tossed it into the puddle of gasoline at my feet.

“You think you won, little girl?” Bellini laughed, a wet, hacking sound. “Your father didn’t hide that key to protect you. He hid it to protect himself. Go see what it opens.”