Chapter 3 - THE SECRET OF SAINT ANTHONY
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I guided Teresa up the grand spiral staircase, supporting her fragile frame with both of my hands.
Her body felt as light as a bundle of dried twigs, and her breathing was shallow and labored.
For forty years, this magnificent limestone mansion had rested on her silent labor, yet she walked through its halls like a frightened ghost.
I settled her into a plush velvet armchair in the master sitting room and wrapped a cashmere blanket around her shoulders.
“Drink this, Mrs. Teresa,” I whispered, handing her a porcelain mug of chamomile tea.
She grasped the warm cup with both hands, her knuckles swollen from decades of chopping vegetables and scrubbing roasting pans.
“Claire, child, you shouldn't be caught in the middle of this mafia poison,” she murmured, tears carving clean paths down her dusted cheeks.
“You are family to this house, Mrs. Teresa,” I insisted gently.
“None of us would let them hurt you.”
Down the hallway, the heavy footsteps of Luca Moretti echoed with relentless purpose toward his late father’s private library.
Curiosity and loyalty pulled me toward the corridor, leaving the sitting room door slightly ajar so I could watch over both Teresa and the boss.
Luca stood before the massive, oil-painted portrait of Saint Anthony holding the Christ Child.
The painting had hung in the library for thirty years, undisturbed by dust or renovation.
With steady hands, Luca swung the heavy gilded frame outward on hidden hinges, revealing a circular brass lock recessed into the exposed brick.
The small brass key slid into the cylinder with a crisp, mechanical click.
When Luca pulled the steel panel open, the scent of aged cedar and dried ink drifted into the hallway.
Inside lay two leather-bound ledgers, a thick stack of cassette tapes, and a sealed manila envelope labeled in Vincenzo Moretti’s unmistakable handwriting.
Luca carried the envelope to the desk lamp, sliding a brass letter opener beneath the wax seal.
I stepped closer to the doorway, my heart thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Inside the envelope were certified bank transaction slips dating back four years, signed with the notary stamp of Salvatore Bellini’s private attorney.
Every slip detailed a systematic draining of the Moretti Family Veteran and Staff Pension Trust.
Money intended for retired maids, gardeners, drivers, and cooks had been redirected into offshore shell accounts registered in the Cayman Islands.
And beneath the financial statements lay a handwritten letter addressed directly to Luca.
I watched Luca’s broad shoulders tremble as he read his deceased father’s final words under the yellow lamp.
“My dearest son,” the letter began, Luca’s voice whispering the words aloud in the empty study.
“If you are reading this, Salvatore Bellini has finally succeeded in taking my breath.”
“He came to me with a marriage proposal between you and his daughter Vanessa, promising it would unite our territories forever.”
“I agreed to the alliance only to buy time while I gathered evidence of his massive embezzlement from our people.”
“Tomorrow morning at dawn, I am scheduled to hand these files to Federal Prosecutor Miller at the downtown harbor offices.”
“Salvatore insists on driving me there himself under the guise of brotherhood.”
“If I do not return from that ride, do not believe the doctors when they call it a heart attack.”
“Look into the wine we drank the night before, and protect Teresa with your life.”
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Luca lowered the letter, his knuckles turning dead white as his hand crushed the paper against the mahogany desk.
The fire in his eyes was no longer mere anger; it was an ancient, lethal fury.
