Chapter 3 - THE SEALED CORRIDOR
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Luca’s enforcer, Marco, stepped into the dining room doorway with two heavily armed soldiers flanking his broad frame.
Marco was a mountain of a man who had protected Luca since their reckless teenage years in South Chicago.
“Lock down the main gates,” Luca ordered without looking back, his voice cutting through the stifling air.
“Nobody leaves this property, not even the groundskeepers or the kitchen staff.”
Vanessa spun toward the terrace doors, her red silk dress swirling dramatically around her ankles.
“You cannot hold me hostage in my own home, Luca!”
Marco moved with terrifying speed, stepping squarely in front of the glass doors and folding his massive arms across his chest.
“Mr. Moretti gave an order, ma'am,” Marco said quietly, his stone face showing zero emotion.
“I suggest you stay inside where it’s warm.”
Vanessa turned back toward her husband, her chest heaving with furious, shallow breaths.
“You’re humiliating me in front of the domestic staff!”
Luca completely ignored her theatrics, extending his left arm to support Arthur’s weight.
“Lean on me, old friend,” Luca murmured, guiding the butler past the dining table.
I followed directly behind them, clutching a tray of discarded cutlery as an excuse to remain close.
Arthur reached deep into his wool jacket pocket while Luca looked toward the staircase.
With trembling fingers, the old man pressed a small, folded piece of paper into the pocket of my white apron.
I kept my hands steady, pretending to adjust the collar of my uniform while concealing the paper.
We walked out into the grand foyer, where the marble floor reflected the dim glow of wall sconces.
The staircase leading to the third floor had been blocked off with velvet ropes for two years.
Don Lorenzo’s private wing had remained untouched since the day his heart supposedly gave out in his sleep.
Luca never went up there, claiming the scent of his father’s cigars still lingered in the wallpaper.
Now, his polished leather shoes climbed each step with deliberate, heavy thuds.
Vanessa was forced to follow, flanked closely by Marco, her designer heels clicking frantically against the oak risers.
“Luca, please listen to reason,” she pleaded, her voice dropping into a desperate, honeyed cadence.
“Whatever is in that safe was written when your father was delirious with fever!”
“He suspected everyone near the end, even his own blood relatives!”
Luca reached the third-floor landing and stopped before a pair of towering double doors carved from dark walnut.
A heavy brass padlock hung from the handles, coated in a fine layer of gray dust.
Arthur reached into his vest and produced a second, smaller key that unlocked the padlock with a sharp metallic snap.
As the heavy doors swung open, the scent of dried tobacco leaves and stale scotch drifted into the corridor.
The grand office looked like a tomb frozen in time, exactly as the old don had left it.
Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, surrounding a massive mahogany desk topped with green blotter paper.
Behind the desk hung a towering oil portrait of Lorenzo Moretti staring down with piercing, unforgiving eyes.
Luca walked slowly toward the portrait, his jaw set like iron.
He reached behind the heavy gilded frame and pressed a hidden latch nestled against the wood paneling.
The entire canvas swung outward on counterweighted steel hinges, revealing a vintage reinforced wall safe.
The dial was polished chrome, but as Luca stepped closer, his eyes narrowed sharply.
Fresh scratches marred the metal surrounding the keyhole.
Someone had tried to force the lock open within the last few days.
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Luca turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto Vanessa with lethal intensity.
“Did you really think I wouldn't notice tool marks on my father's safe?”
