Chapter 4 - Bloodlines and Broth
The commercial-grade kitchen of the Moretti estate was vast, gleaming with brushed stainless steel, copper pots, and high-end restaurant appliances. It was designed to cater banquets for senators and judges, yet it had never felt as warm as it did tonight.
Mrs. Moretti had tied one of my spare aprons around her cardigan, humming softly in Italian as she stood over a massive four-burner range, reheating her homemade chicken soup in a modest silver saucepan.
Luca sat at the large butcher-block prep island in the center of the room. He had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, exposing the dark, intricate tattoos that crept up his forearms—symbols of loyalty, family crests, and old scars from street fights fought long before he wore bespoke suits.
I stood by the service counter, hesitant, clutching a clean dish towel.
“Sit down, Emma,” Luca said, pulling out a heavy oak barstool beside him.
“Mr. Moretti, it wouldn't be proper,” I stammered, smoothing down my simple black uniform skirt. “I'm still on duty, and—”
“I don't recall asking for your resume,” Luca cut in, his gray eyes fixing on mine with an undeniable authority that made my pulse race. “Sit down. That’s an order.”
Swallowing hard, I sat on the stool, leaving a polite cushion of space between us.
Mrs. Moretti ladled steaming, golden broth filled with carrots, herbs, and thick hand-cut noodles into three porcelain bowls. She set the first one before Luca, the second before me, and kept the third for herself as she sat across from us.
“Eat, child,” the old woman commanded gently, nudging a silver spoon into my hand. “Real food. Not that cold raw fish and tiny portions they were serving upstairs.”
I took a spoonful. The broth was rich, savory, infused with cracked pepper and decades of tradition. It tasted like comfort, like home, like something genuine in a world built on hollow lies and polished silver.
“It’s wonderful, Mrs. Moretti,” I said honestly, feeling warmth spread through my chest.
Luca was already eating with quiet intensity. For a few minutes, he looked nothing like the terrifying boss whose name made grown men sweat in the courtrooms of Chicago. He was just a boy tasting his mother’s cooking after years in a desert of corporate greed and mafia betrayals.
“Ma,” Luca said after clearing his bowl, setting his spoon down with deliberate care. “Tell me how Vincent’s men got into the pantry without tripping the gate alarms.”
Mrs. Moretti stopped eating, her expression turning somber. She reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a small, metallic object, placing it beside her chipped bowl.
It was an electronic key fob stamped with a private crest.
“It was in the coat closet downstairs,” she said quietly. “Dropped beneath the bench. I picked it up thinking someone lost their keys.”
Luca picked up the fob. He turned it over in his hand, his eyes darkening as he recognized the tiny engraved initials on the back: C.M.
“Carlo,” Luca whispered, the name dropping like lead into the quiet kitchen.
My breath caught. Carlo Moretti was Luca’s first cousin and his second-in-command. He handled the family's logistics, their legal shell companies, and the private security contracts throughout the Midwest. If Carlo was working with the Bellinis, this wasn't just a botched warehouse robbery.
It was a full-scale coup.
Right on cue, the kitchen’s internal house phone buzzed. Luca picked it up, pressing speaker.
“Boss,” Marco’s voice cracked over the line, accompanied by the muffled sound of rain and distant shouting. “We secured the warehouse. Vincent Bellini was caught on-site with six armed runners. But Carlo wasn't with them. His personal car just left his downtown penthouse, heading south.”
“Where is he going?” Luca demanded.
“Traffic cams caught him heading toward the private airfield in Gary, Indiana,” Marco reported. “Boss... he emptied the main holding vaults at the LaSalle Street bank two hours ago. He took the offshore bonds. Over eighty million dollars.”
Luca didn't shout. He didn't slam the phone. His composure became terrifyingly rigid.
“Lock down every airstrip within fifty miles,” Luca said. “Tell the boys in Indiana that anyone who lets that plane leave the tarmac answers to me personally. I'm coming down to LaSalle Street now.”
He hung up the receiver.
He stood up, towering over the island. But as he turned to leave, his eyes swept over his mother. She was old, frail, and now completely marked as a target. Vanessa was out there, Carlo was on the run, and the Bellini family would be desperate for leverage.
“Ma, you can't stay here tonight,” Luca said, running a hand through his dark hair. “The perimeter isn't secure until I know how deep Carlo’s rot goes. I have to put you in a safe house.”
“No safe houses,” Mrs. Moretti said stubbornly, crossing her arms. “Full of armed boys smoking cigars and stinking up the rooms. I’m going to stay with someone I trust.”
Luca looked at her, perplexed. “Ma, who in this city do you trust that isn't connected to the family?”
Mrs. Moretti turned her head, her warm brown eyes settling directly on me.
“Emma.”
I nearly choked on my water. “Me?”
“You have that little house your father left you out in Oak Park, don't you?” Mrs. Moretti asked, smiling gently. “You mentioned it earlier when we were talking downstairs. The one with the rose bushes and the quiet porch?”
“Yes, ma'am, but... it’s tiny,” I stammered, my cheeks burning. “It’s old, the roof leaks sometimes, and I'm just an employee—”
“You’re the only person in this entire concrete fortress who had the decency to treat an old woman like a human being tonight,” Mrs. Moretti interrupted firmly. “Luca, I am going with Emma. No one knows where she lives. No one will look for me in a regular neighborhood.”
Luca stood still, evaluating the proposition. His gaze shifted from his mother to me, scanning my face with an unnerving scrutiny. He stepped around the counter until he was standing directly in front of me, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
“Emma,” he said, his voice dropped to a low, intimate baritone. “If my mother walks out of that door with you, your life changes forever. You become part of this. The Bellinis, my cousin, the authorities—if they find out she’s with you, your front door gets kicked in.”
I looked at Mrs. Moretti, whose sweet, tired eyes held nothing but honest trust. Then I looked back up at Luca. For seven months, I had watched this man from afar, seeing a ruthless predator to the outside world, but knowing he was a man fiercely loyal to those who stood by him.
“I won't let anyone hurt her, Mr. Moretti,” I said, surprised by the steady strength in my own voice. “She’ll be safe with me.”
May you like
Luca stared at me for several long seconds, his expression unreadable, before reaching out and gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers were surprisingly soft against my skin, sending a jolt of electricity down my spine.
“Pack your things,” he whispered. “You don't work for this house anymore, Emma. Starting tonight, you work directly for me.”
