Chapter 6 - The Arrival of Marcus Vance
By five o'clock that evening, night had completely swallowed the North Shore.
A torrential downpour drummed against the slate roof of the Moretti mansion, the wind howling off Lake Michigan in violent, sixty-mile-an-hour gusts that stripped the remaining leaves from the ancient elms lining the driveway.
Inside the grand formal library on the first floor, a fire roared in the massive limestone hearth, throwing long, flickering shadows across floor-to-ceiling shelves of antique leather-bound books.
Sophie was curled up on an enormous Chesterfield leather sofa, fast asleep under a heavy cashmere throw. Beside her, Eleanor sat in a secondary armchair, her hand resting gently on my daughter’s dark braids, stroking them with rhythmic, grandmotherly devotion.
Eleanor had refused to stay in her bedroom. The moment Sophie had arrived through the service entrance, the old woman had demanded to be wheeled downstairs. For two hours, the elderly Sicilian matriarch and the eight-year-old deaf girl had sat together before the fire, exchanging signs with a quiet, joyful intensity that seemed to push back the encroaching darkness of the estate.
I stood by the window, watching the rain streak across the dark glass.
Luca stood three paces behind me. He had traded his business suit for a dark charcoal Henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle and intricate tattoo work that had marked him as his father’s heir twenty years ago. In his right hand, he held a lowball glass containing two fingers of dark scotch. He hadn't taken a sip.
"The gate intercom just buzzed," Luca said softly, his voice cutting through the hiss of the rain.
I turned around, my stomach knotting into a cold ball. "Is it him?"
"Three cars," Luca replied, set his glass down on the mantelpiece. "Marcus Vance, his private attorney, and four men from the Calumet River crews."
"Luca..." I started, using his first name without realizing it, my voice trembling with fear for the child sleeping on the sofa. "What are you going to do?"
Luca looked across the room at his mother, then at Sophie. His gray eyes softened for a fraction of a second—a fleeting glimpse of the boy who had brought white roses every Thursday—before turning into stone.
"I'm going to let Marcus Vance walk into this house," Luca said, his voice flat and absolute. "I'm going to let him present his documents. And then I'm going to show him what happens when you try to bury a Moretti while she is still breathing."
He looked at me.
"Take the girls into the adjoining study, Claire. Keep the door locked until Marco turns the key."
Eleanor’s hands moved from Sophie’s hair, forming a single, sharp sign toward her son.
No, she signed, her jaw jutting out with fierce, stubborn pride. I stay.
Luca frowned, stepping toward her chair. "Mom, this isn't the time—"
I spent eighteen months in that room, Eleanor signed with blistering speed, her eyes flashing with a terrifying authority that made the six-foot-two mafia boss stop dead in his tracks. I listened to that man tell me you wished I was dead. I listened to Patricia laugh at my silence. I will not hide in the dark like an animal while you settle my account.
Luca stared at his mother. For the first time all day, a ghost of a smile—dark, proud, and deadly—touched the corners of his lips.
"All right, Ma," Luca whispered, bowing his head slightly. "You stay."
The heavy oak double doors of the library swung open with a resounding thud.
Marcus Vance stepped across the threshold.
He was in his late forties, impeccably groomed in a three-thousand-dollar camel-hair overcoat, his silver-flecked hair slicked back against the rain. He carried an embossed leather legal portfolio under his arm, exuding the smooth, polished arrogance of a man who believed he had successfully orchestrated the theft of an empire.
Behind him stepped two lawyers carrying heavy briefcases, followed by two broad-shouldered enforcers in dripping leather jackets.
"Luca!" Vance boomed, spreading his arms with theatrical warmth, as though he were arriving at a family celebration. "God, what a night out there! The lake is throwing driftwood all the way onto Sheridan Road."
He took two steps into the room, then froze.
His eyes fell upon the wheelchair resting beside the hearth.
Eleanor sat there, perfectly upright, her chin lifted, her gaze fixed upon him with the icy, unblinking hatred of an empress looking at a traitorous dog. Beside her stood me, my hand resting on her shoulder.
Vance’s theatrical smile slipped, a twitch of pure shock rippling across his left cheek. His eyes darted toward the hallway, then back to Luca, who stood motionless beside the mantel.
"Luca?" Vance asked, his voice dropping an octave, the polished charm curdling into defensive caution. "What is your mother doing downstairs? The medical team from the county is supposed to be here to evaluate her transfer—"
"The medical team won't be joining us tonight, Marcus," Luca said softly.
Vance swallowed hard, his eyes narrowing as he gripped his portfolio tighter. "Luca, look, I know this is difficult for you. But Patricia called me this morning. She said your mother suffered another massive mental break. She said Eleanor had become violently unmanageable."
"Did she?" Luca asked, taking a single, slow step toward him.
"Yes!" Vance insisted, stepping closer to his lawyers, seeking safety in numbers. "We have the court order right here. The probate court has officially ratified the conservatorship. For her own protection, Luca, she needs to be moved to our private facility in Barrington tonight. Before she hurts herself."
Luca didn't answer.
Instead, he turned his head slightly toward the wheelchair.
"Mom," Luca murmured, his voice gentle. "Tell Mr. Vance what he brought you on Tuesday nights."
Vance’s face went dead white.
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"Luca, what are you talking about?" Vance stammered, his voice rising in panic. "Your mother can't speak! She's been a mute since the stroke!"
Slowly, deliberately, Eleanor raised both hands into the warm light of the fire.
