Chapter 10 – THE HEIRLOOM IN THE FIRE

Vincenzo stared at the torn, blank pieces of paper in my hands.

There was no microchip. There was no hidden ledger. It was just an old, meaningless piece of cardboard.

“It was a distraction,” Vincenzo breathed, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. He looked up at me, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. “You lied to me.”

“I told you,” I said coldly, letting the torn pieces flutter to the floor. “My father was an accountant. He was meticulous. He wouldn’t hide the most dangerous information in Chicago in a jewelry box.”

“Where is it?!” Vincenzo roared, drawing his weapon and pressing it directly against my forehead.

“Touch her,” Luca growled, his own gun instantly pressed under Vincenzo’s chin, “and I will paint this room with your blood.”

The Bellini guards raised their rifles. Marco and his men raised theirs.

A deadly Mexican standoff in my bedroom.

“You think you’ve won?” Vincenzo hissed, his finger twitching on the trigger. “If I don’t walk out of here with that ledger, my men will burn this house to the ground with your daughter inside it.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I didn’t blink. I stared down the barrel of the mafia boss’s gun.

“You’re not going to burn anything,” a calm, weary voice said from the doorway.

We all turned.

Nonna Francesca stood there, leaning on her cane. But she wasn’t looking at Vincenzo.

She was looking at the massive stone fireplace at the end of the master bedroom.

“When Emma’s father came to us ten years ago,” Francesca said slowly, “he didn’t trust Luca. Luca was young, hot-headed. He trusted me.”

Vincenzo lowered his gun slightly. “Francesca. What did you do?”

“I took the ledger from him,” the old woman said, walking slowly into the room. “And I told him I would hide it where no Bellini, and no Moretti, would ever think to look.”

She walked toward the cold fireplace. Resting on the mantle was a heavy, ornate silver urn.

It was the burial urn of Luca’s grandfather. The founding patriarch of the Moretti family.

Vincenzo stared at it in horror. “You hid it in your husband’s ashes?”

“A sacred heirloom,” Francesca smiled softly. “Nobody touches the dead.”

She reached out and tipped the heavy silver urn over.

Grey ash spilled onto the stone hearth.

And hidden amidst the ashes, gleaming under the bedroom lights, was a small, black encrypted hard drive.

The ledger.

Vincenzo’s eyes widened with manic greed. He lunged forward, shoving Francesca aside. The old woman stumbled, falling hard against the stone floor.

“Nonna!” Luca yelled, dropping his gun to catch her.

Vincenzo grabbed the hard drive. He held it up, a triumphant, psychotic laugh escaping his lips.

“I have it!” he shouted to his men. “We leave! Now!”

He turned to run out the door.

“Stop him!” I screamed.

But before Marco could fire, the sound of blaring sirens pierced the night air.

Red and blue lights suddenly flooded through the bedroom windows, illuminating Vincenzo’s terrified face.

Helicopters roared overhead, shaking the glass.

“FBI! Drop your weapons!” a voice boomed from a megaphone outside.

Vincenzo froze. He looked at the hard drive in his hand, then at the flashing lights outside.

“You called the Feds?” Vincenzo asked, staring at Luca in disbelief. “You broke omertà? You’re a dead man!”

Luca helped his grandmother to her feet. He didn’t look scared. He looked entirely at peace.

“I didn’t call them,” Luca said softly.

He looked at me.

Vincenzo turned his furious gaze toward me.

“I did,” I said, my voice steady. “While we were in the car, on the way to the bank. I texted the lead FBI agent. I told him Vincenzo Bellini was raiding the Moretti estate tonight to recover the stolen cartel ledger.”

“You stupid bitch,” Vincenzo spat, raising his gun at me. “I’ll kill you before they get through the door!”

But as Vincenzo pulled the trigger, a deafening CRACK echoed through the room.

It wasn’t Vincenzo’s gun.

Vincenzo gasped, dropping his weapon. He clutched his chest, a dark stain spreading across his expensive suit. He fell backward, collapsing onto the floor next to the spilled ashes of Luca’s grandfather.

I turned in shock.

Standing in the doorway, smoke rising from the barrel of her small, pearl-handled revolver, was Nonna Francesca.

“Nobody threatens my girl,” Francesca said quietly.

The FBI swarmed the room seconds later, throwing the remaining Bellini guards to the floor. Agents rushed in, securing the area and securing the black hard drive from Vincenzo’s lifeless fingers.

The nightmare was finally over.

But as I turned to look at Luca, my heart stopped.

Luca was leaning heavily against the wall, his hand pressed against his abdomen.

Blood was soaking through his white shirt.

“Luca?” I gasped, running toward him. He smiled weakly, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed into my arms.

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