Chapter 5 - The Midnight Interrogation
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Luca did not raise his voice, and that made the silence in the room a thousand times more terrifying.
He hauled his younger brother up from the floor by the lapel of his tailored jacket.
Michael gasped for air, his heels scraping against the Persian rug.
“Did you think I wouldn’t hear you leave the dining room?” Luca asked.
“Luca, listen to me,” Michael choked out, his face turning crimson.
Luca threw him toward the leather armchair in the corner of the room.
Michael collapsed into it, clutching his throat and coughing violently.
Luca turned his back on his brother and walked directly over to where I was picking myself up from the hearth.
He extended his hand to me.
His fingers were warm, steady, and calloused.
“Are you hurt, Hannah?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Moretti,” I said quietly, placing my hand in his.
He pulled me to my feet with effortless strength, never letting go until he was sure I had my balance.
I handed him the stack of papers, along with the faded envelope.
“These were in the vase.”
Luca took the documents, his eyes narrowing as he read the title of the legal transfer deed.
“Lake Geneva,” he murmured, his voice laced with cold disgust.
“That was the home our mother grew up in.”
“Our grandfather built it with his own hands.”
Luca looked up from the deed and stared down at Michael.
“You were going to hand it over to Salvatore Bellini?”
Michael rubbed his bruised neck, looking at the floor.
“Salvatore promised us the northern distribution routes in exchange.”
“There is no ‘us,’ Michael,” Luca snapped.
“There was only you and Vanessa carving up our family while our mother struggled to hold a spoon.”
Luca then looked down at the faded envelope.
He stopped breathing for a moment when he recognized the sharp, slanted handwriting.
“Dante’s letter,” Luca whispered.
He didn’t open it immediately; his fingers simply traced the faded ink of his exiled brother’s name.
“Where did she get this?”
“Dante sent it to her four months ago,” I answered softly.
“It came inside a package of specialty teas from a post office box in Boston.”
“Mrs. Moretti hid it because Vanessa searched all her mail every Thursday.”
Luca turned back toward Michael, his eyes dark with an emotion that looked dangerously close to heartbreak.
“You told me Dante was living in luxury in Miami on stolen family money.”
Michael said nothing.
“You told me he laughed when you told him Father died.”
Michael still refused to meet his gaze.
Luca stepped closer to the armchair until his polished leather shoes touched Michael’s knees.
“Did my father know what you did before he died?”
“Father was dying of lung cancer, Luca!”
Michael finally screamed, looking up with tears of frustrated hatred in his eyes.
“He didn’t care about the ports anymore!”
“All he cared about was you, the golden son, the heir who could do no wrong!”
“And Dante, the brilliant strategist who walked away from the blood!”
“What about me, Luca?”
“I stayed here!”
“I spent eight years cleaning up the messes your father left behind!”
“And you rewarded yourself by selling our mother into an institution?” Luca’s voice was as cold as a winter grave.
“She wouldn't have known the difference!” Michael yelled back.
The slap was sharp, precise, and echoed off the bookshelves.
Michael’s head snapped to the side, blood welling at the corner of his lip.
“Never speak about our mother like that again,” Luca commanded.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed a single speed-dial button.
“Marco,” Luca spoke into the receiver.
“Bring two men up to Teresa’s sitting room.”
“Take my brother down to the wine cellar under the east wing.”
“Strip him of his phone, his keys, and his wallet.”
Michael’s face drained of all color.
“Luca, no! You can’t lock me up like a criminal!”
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“You’re not a criminal, Michael,” Luca said, putting his phone away.
“You’re a traitor to your own blood.”
