Chapter 6 – THE GHOSTS OF 1998

The words on the back of the photograph felt like a physical blow.

The day Teresa Moretti testified against my father.

I looked up at Luca. He was staring out the window, his jaw tense, completely unaware of the bomb I was holding in my hand.

“Mr. Moretti,” I whispered.

He turned to me.

I handed him the photograph and the note.

Luca read the date.

He read the red ink.

The color drained from his face entirely.

“1998,” Luca murmured. His voice sounded like it was coming from a hundred miles away.

“Do you know what happened then?” I asked gently.

Luca nodded slowly. “My father was trying to take the family business legitimate. The New York Syndicate—run by Clara’s father—didn’t like that. They tried to strong-arm us. When my father refused, they put a hit out on him.”

Luca paused, swallowing hard.

“They missed my father. But they hit our car. I was twelve. Michael was ten.”

My hand flew to my mouth.

“My mother was in the passenger seat,” Luca continued, his voice trembling with a grief he had buried for decades. “She saw the shooter’s face. She testified in federal court. Her testimony is what put Clara’s father in a maximum-security prison for life.”

The pieces slammed together with terrifying clarity.

Vanessa—Clara—hadn’t just targeted the Moretti family for their money.

She had spent years embedding herself into Luca’s life to destroy the woman who put her father away.

“She’s going to kill her,” Luca whispered, the horrific realization hitting him. “The trust, the money… it’s all just a distraction. She’s taking my mother to international waters to execute her.”

He banged his fist against the partition separating us from the driver.

“Faster, Carlo! We have thirty minutes!”

The convoy tore through the empty streets of downtown Chicago, the dark skyscrapers looming overhead like tombstones.

It was 5:20 A.M. when we pulled up to Pier 44.

The docks were shrouded in heavy, freezing fog. The water of Lake Michigan lapped violently against the wooden pylons.

At the end of the pier, a sleek, white private yacht was idling, its engines humming softly in the darkness.

“There,” Luca pointed.

Two armed men were standing on the boarding ramp.

Luca didn’t wait for a plan. He kicked his door open and stepped out into the freezing mist, his gun drawn.

Carlo and the rest of the security team immediately flanked him.

“Hannah, stay with Leo,” Luca commanded over his shoulder.

I locked the car doors and held Leo tightly against my chest.

Through the fog, I watched Luca walk straight down the center of the pier. He didn’t hide. He didn’t hesitate.

The two men on the ramp raised their weapons.

“Drop them,” Luca’s voice echoed over the water, lethal and absolute. “Or you die on this dock.”

The men hesitated. They looked at each other. They knew who Luca Moretti was.

Before they could decide, Carlo’s men leveled a dozen assault rifles at them from the shadows.

The guards dropped their guns and raised their hands.

Luca walked past them, stepping onto the yacht.

I couldn’t stay in the car. I couldn’t sit there while Teresa was in danger.

“Stay here, sweetie,” I whispered to Leo. “Lock the door behind me.”

I slipped out of the car and ran silently down the pier, staying in the shadows of the shipping crates until I reached the boarding ramp.

I crept onto the deck of the yacht.

Through the large glass windows of the main cabin, I saw them.

Teresa was tied to a chair in the center of the room. She looked exhausted, her head hanging down.

Standing behind her was Arthur Rossi, the gray-haired man. He was holding a syringe filled with clear liquid.

And standing in front of Teresa, holding a silver handgun, was Vanessa.

“You ruined my life, you old witch,” Vanessa spat, pacing in front of Teresa. “My father died in a cage because of you. Today, you die in the water.”

Teresa slowly lifted her head.

Even battered and exhausted, the seventy-nine-year-old woman looked at her tormentor with absolute defiance.

“Your father was a monster,” Teresa said quietly. “And he raised a coward.”

Vanessa screamed, raising the gun to strike Teresa across the face.

But before the metal could connect, the cabin door was kicked off its hinges.

Luca stood in the doorway, his gun pointed directly at Vanessa’s chest.

“Step away from my mother.”

Vanessa froze.

Arthur panicked, dropping the syringe on the floor.

“Luca!” Vanessa gasped, her eyes wide. “How did you—”

“It’s over, Clara,” Luca said, stepping into the room.

Vanessa’s face contorted into a mask of pure rage at the sound of her real name.

She grabbed Teresa by the hair and jammed the barrel of her gun against the old woman’s temple.

“Drop the gun, Luca!” Vanessa shrieked. “Drop it, or I blow her brains out right now!”

Luca stopped.

His hand shook.

“Don’t do it, sweetheart,” Teresa whispered, her voice surprisingly calm. “Don’t let her win.”

“Drop it!” Vanessa screamed, pulling the hammer back.

Luca slowly lowered his weapon to the floor.

Vanessa laughed. A manic, triumphant sound.

“You’re pathetic, Luca. Just like your father.”

She looked at Arthur. “Tie him up. We’re throwing them both overboard.”

Arthur moved nervously toward Luca, holding a roll of zip ties.

But as Arthur stepped forward, a sudden, loud thud echoed from the back of the cabin.

Everyone froze.

The door to the yacht’s lower storage compartment slowly swung open.

And stepping out of the shadows, bruised, bleeding, but holding a heavy steel wrench, was Michael Moretti.

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