Chapter 6 - The Setup
The silence in the grand foyer of the Moretti estate was broken only by the rhythmic, heavy pacing of boots.
It was barely nine o'clock the following morning, but the sunlight filtering through the tall windows felt cold, pale, and sickly. The entire household staff—from the elderly kitchen cooks to the groundskeepers with dirt still on their fingernails—had been lined up against the west wall like prisoners facing a firing squad.
At the center of the room stood Richard Vance.
He had arrived unannounced, flanked by four massive, stone-faced bodyguards whose tailored jackets barely hid the automatic weapons beneath their arms. Beside him stood Isabella, looking pale, triumphant, and vindictive, a cruel smirk playing on her lips.
And in the middle of the floor, sitting on a low velvet bench, was Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, weeping silently into a handkerchief.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Luca’s voice echoed down the grand staircase before he even came into view.
He descended the marble steps slowly, dressed in a crisp charcoal-gray suit, moving with a calm, deliberate stillness that was infinitely more terrifying than Vance’s overt show of force. I walked two paces behind him, wearing a simple, high-collared navy dress that concealed the bandage on my leg. My heart was pounding like a trapped bird in my ribs.
Richard Vance turned, his hawk-like eyes narrowing as Luca reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Luca,” Vance said, his voice flat, gravelly, and laced with venom. “We have a problem in your house. A problem of theft.”
Luca stopped at the foot of the stairs, clasping his hands behind his back. He didn't look at the armed men Vance had brought into his home. He didn't acknowledge Isabella. His eyes remained locked on the older man.
“You bring armed men across my threshold without an invitation, Richard,” Luca said, his tone deceptively mild. “The last man who did that was pulled from the Chicago River in three separate burlap sacks. Speak carefully.”
Vance didn't flinch, though the guards behind him shifted uncomfortably, their hands drifting closer to their lapels.
“I am here to protect my family’s honor,” Vance said, stepping forward. “Last night, while we were at the Drake, my daughter noticed that an irreplaceable heirloom was missing from her private suite here. The Romanov sapphire brooch. An engagement gift from my grandmother, valued at over half a million dollars.”
Luca’s eyes flickered, cold and unreadable. “And you believe someone in this house stole it?”
“We know who stole it,” Isabella interjected, stepping out from behind her father, her finger pointing straight at my face. “Her!”
The room went dead silent.
Every eye turned toward me. The housekeepers gasped; Mrs. Gable’s quiet sobs hitched in her throat.
I felt the blood drain from my face. “What? That’s not true! I’ve never even seen that brooch!”
“Save your lies, you pathetic little thief!” Isabella spat, her voice dripping with triumphant malice. “You were seen on the second-floor gallery yesterday afternoon while everyone was busy preparing for the gala. You thought because Luca gave you a few scraps from his table, you could rob us blind and walk away!”
“Richard,” Luca said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, dangerously quiet register. “Accusing someone under my protection requires proof.”
“We have proof,” Vance smiled—a thin, cruel line that didn't reach his eyes. He turned to one of his bodyguards, who was holding a small, faded canvas duffel bag.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was my bag.
The cheap, worn bag I had brought with me from my mother’s apartment when I took the live-in housekeeping job six weeks ago.
The guard unzipped the bag, reached inside, and pulled out an ornate, sparkling sapphire brooch surrounded by a cluster of brilliant-cut diamonds. The stones caught the morning sun, casting blue and white shards of light across the marble floor.
“Found in her personal locker in the basement staff quarters,” Vance said smoothly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tucked inside her extra uniform. Clear as day.”
Isabella took a step forward, her chin lifted high, looking at Luca with open challenge.
“There is your proof, Luca,” she said, her voice purring with satisfaction. “Under family law—under *your* law—a servant who steals from the family is handed over to the offended party for punishment. She belongs to us now.”
The weight of the accusation fell like a stone into the center of the room.
In the underworld circles that governed Chicago, theft was considered a blood offense. If a member of the staff stole from an allied family, the code dictated they be handed over without trial, without police, and without mercy.
Isabella hadn't just framed me to get me fired.
She had framed me under the ancient laws of the syndicate so that Luca would be bound by his own code to hand me over to her father’s men. If he refused, he would be breaking the alliance himself, giving Vance the moral high ground to launch an all-out war with the support of the other Chicago families.
My knees felt weak. I looked at Luca’s back, panic clawing at my throat.
*He’s going to hand me over,* the terrified voice in my head screamed. *The law is absolute. He won't destroy his entire empire for me.*
Luca didn't move.
He looked down at the glittering brooch in the bodyguard’s hand, then turned his gaze slowly to Richard Vance.
“A half-million-dollar brooch,” Luca mused quietly, taking a slow step toward Vance. “Found in a locker that hasn't been locked in three weeks because the latch was broken. Found by your men, inside my house, without my head of security present.”
“The facts speak for themselves, Luca,” Vance said firmly. “Step aside. Let my men take her. We settle this according to the old ways, and we can forget this ridiculous dispute over the engagement.”
Luca reached out, taking the brooch from the bodyguard’s hand. The guard hesitated, but one look at Luca’s eyes made him release the jewel instantly.
Luca turned the sapphire over in his fingers, examining the intricate gold filigree on the back.
“It is a stunning piece, Richard,” Luca said softly. “Truly. But there is a small detail you seem to have overlooked.”
Isabella’s smile flickered. “What are you talking about?”
Luca didn't answer her. Instead, he reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a small, high-intensity UV flashlight—the kind used by forensic teams and art appraisers.
He clicked the button. A sharp beam of violet light illuminated the back of the brooch.
Under the ultraviolet glow, faint, glowing green residue lit up across the gold setting and the pin clasp.
“Two days ago,” Luca said, his voice echoing with absolute, terrifying clarity through the cavernous foyer, “I noticed someone had been accessing my private files in the lower cellar. To identify the intruder, I had my security team dust several high-value objects and secure lockboxes with a specialized luminescent tracking powder. It doesn't wash off with soap. It stays in the pores of the skin for seventy-two hours.”
Luca switched off the flashlight, slipping it back into his pocket.
Then, he looked up at Isabella.
“Hold out your hands, Isabella.”
The color completely vanished from Isabella’s face. She froze, her eyes widening in absolute, petrified horror.
“No,” she stammered, pulling her hands behind her back. “No, this is absurd! I didn't—”
“Hold out your hands,” Luca repeated. The command was not loud, but it shattered the air like thunder.
Richard Vance turned to his daughter, his expression shifting from arrogant triumph to sudden, sharp suspicion. “Isabella. What is he talking about?”
“Father, he’s lying! He’s trying to protect his little whore!”
Luca didn't wait. In a motion so fast the eye could barely track it, he crossed the distance between them, grabbed Isabella’s right wrist, and jerked it into the air.
With his other hand, he clicked the UV light back on and pointed the violet beam directly at her manicured fingers.
Her thumb, her index finger, and the palm of her right hand glowed with bright, unmistakable neon green.
A collective gasp ripped through the room.
Luca didn't let go of her wrist. He tightened his grip until Isabella let out a sharp cry of pain, forced onto her tiptoes.
“You took the brooch from your own jewelry box yesterday morning,” Luca said, his voice dripping with lethal, icy venom. “You walked down to the basement locker room while the staff was serving breakfast, placed it in Clara’s bag, and called your father to set the trap.”
Luca leaned down until his lips were inches from Isabella’s ear, his voice carrying to every corner of the foyer.
“You didn't just frame an innocent woman in my house, Isabella,” he whispered. “You broke my laws. You brought a false blood accusation against someone under my personal protection.”
He dropped her wrist in disgust, as if he had been touching garbage, and turned his gaze to Richard Vance.
Vance stood frozen, his face gray, his arrogant posture completely shattered. He knew the code better than anyone. A false blood accusation was an act of treason against the high council.
“Richard,” Luca said, stepping into the older man’s face until their noses were barely an inch apart. “You have thirty seconds to take your daughter and get off my property before I have my men shoot every single one of you where you stand.”
Vance swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He looked at his armed guards, then at the second-floor balcony, where three of Luca’s snipers had silently appeared, laser sights trained steadily on the center of Vance’s chest.
“This isn't over, Moretti,” Vance rasped, his voice trembling with humiliated rage.
May you like
“It is over for your daughter,” Luca replied with finality. “If she ever steps foot inside Cook County again, she will not leave it alive. Now get out.”
***
