Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Wool|
Within twenty minutes, the cavernous ballroom was entirely empty, leaving only the scent of wilted white roses and spilled champagne.
Vanessa had been escorted off the estate grounds by four armed guards, screaming obscenities into the rainy night.
Samuel sat at the edge of the massive kitchen island, his small legs swinging nervously above the floor.
I brought him a mug of steaming hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows, just like his father used to make on Sunday nights.
The boy looked at the mug, then looked up at me with profound gratitude before taking a careful sip.
Luca stood near the large bay window, watching the rain lash against the bulletproof glass panes.
He had taken off his tailored black dinner jacket and rolled his crisp white shirt sleeves up to his elbows.
The intricate ink of his family tattoos stretched across his forearms, dark and menacing in the warm kitchen light.
Yet when he turned to face Samuel, every trace of violence vanished from his posture.
“Dad gave you that coat two winters ago when your school bus broke down, didn’t he?” Luca asked gently, pulling up a wooden barstool.
Samuel nodded, running his thumb over the jagged black thread on the right pocket.
“He said it had real wool from Ireland,” Samuel whispered, a faint smile breaking through his exhaustion.
“He told me as long as I wore it, nothing bad could ever touch me.”
Luca reached out, gently touching the clumsy black stitches along the hem of the pocket.
“Dad was terrible with a needle,” Luca murmured, his voice thick with unspent grief.
Samuel suddenly stiffened, his eyes darting toward the entryway as if checking for intruders.
“Luca,” Samuel whispered, leaning across the marble counter.
“What is it, buddy?”
“Dad didn’t sew that pocket because it was torn.”
Luca froze, his dark eyes narrowing with intense focus.
“What do you mean, Sammy?”
“Two nights before the ambulance came, Dad called me into the workshop in the garage,” Samuel explained, his voice barely louder than the rain.
“His hands were shaking really bad, and he was coughing a lot.”
“He told me that if anything ever happened to him, I had to keep this coat with me no matter what Vanessa said.”
“He told me the lining held something that belonged only to you and me.”
Luca’s breath caught in his throat.
He looked up at me, his eyes wide with a realization that sent a cold shudder down my spine.
“Hannah, bring me the kitchen shears from the utility drawer,” Luca ordered calmly, never taking his eyes off the worn fabric.
I hurried across the kitchen, retrieved the heavy steel scissors, and placed them gently into Luca’s scarred palm.
Luca took the hem of the heavy brown coat into his hands with infinite reverence, treating the frayed wool like spun gold.
Carefully, snip by snip, he cut through the crooked black thread sealing the interior pocket.
Inside the thick lining, nestled deep within the horsehair canvas, was a thick rectangular packet wrapped in yellow waterproof oilcloth.
Luca pulled it out slowly, his fingers trembling with an emotion he had hidden from the world for ten long months.
Samuel leaned forward, his chocolate forgotten.
“Is that what Vanessa was looking for?” the boy asked.
May you like
Luca peeled away the heavy wax paper, revealing a handwritten letter and a digital audio cassette tape labeled with their father’s initials.
The handwriting on the envelope was unmistakably Frank Moretti’s jagged, heavy scrawl: To Luca, regarding my boy Samuel.
