Chapter 2 - The Pink Suitcase in the GarageThe low, throaty rumble of a turbocharged V8 echoed through the frosted glass of the courtyard terrace.
Forty guests sat frozen along the mahogany table, crystal goblets suspended halfway to their mouths.
Luca did not shout. He did not curse.
He rose smoothly to his feet, his tailored black jacket falling into place with terrifying precision.
“Hannah,” he said, his voice flat as shaved slate.
“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Who was standing beside the car?”
My throat was dry as sand, but Teresa’s fingers were dug into my forearm like iron claws, urging me forward with an unspoken, desperate plea.
“Julian Bellini,” I answered, the name cutting through the room like an ice pick. “Your fiancée’s brother. He had the trunk open, and Miss Bellini handed him Sophie’s pink weekend duffel and a manila folder.”
A collective gasp rippled down the table.
Julian Bellini had been exiled from Cook County three years earlier after skimming seven million dollars from the South Side port union and staging an armed hijacking at the Calumet rail terminal. Luca had personally declared that if Julian ever crossed the Indiana border back into Chicago, he would be buried beneath sixty feet of limestone slurry.
Vanessa took half a step backward, her diamond collar catching the chandelier light in jagged, frantic flickers.
“Luca, darling, she’s lying! She’s an unhinged domestic worker trying to cover for her incompetence! Julian is in Miami—his probation officer verifies his location every evening!”
Luca didn’t look at her.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out his personal phone, and tapped a single speed-dial digit.
“Dante.”
A harsh, static-laced voice came through the speaker: “Boss.”
“Drop the hydraulic bollards at the perimeter gate. Spike the driveway. Nobody leaves the compound on wheels.”
“Moving now.”
Across the estate grounds, the deafening pneumatic hiss of industrial road barriers slamming upward tore through the night air, followed by the shrill squeal of locked tires sliding across wet asphalt.
A loud, violent crash echoed from the front driveway—the sound of an armored bumper colliding with forty tons of reinforced steel bollards.
Luca slid his phone back into his pocket.
He turned his dark, predatory gaze onto Vanessa.
“My daughter has a severe peanut allergy, Vanessa,” Luca whispered, each syllable measured, quiet, and lethal. “She does not leave this house after dark without her medical kit, her security detail, and my personal authorization.”
He stepped past her, stopping two inches from her pale face.
“Why was she packed in a trunk?”
Vanessa’s lips parted, her jaw trembling violently as the room seemed to run out of air.
“Luca... please... my brother was only taking her to the lake house! Just for the weekend! I wanted us to have our engagement dinner without distractions!”
Teresa let out a ragged, furious cry from the wheelchair.
She lifted her left hand, the fingers trembling as she pointed toward the hallway.
“No...” Teresa forced the word past her lips, her voice raspy, thick with fury, but unmistakable. “Passport... ticket...”
Luca froze.
He looked down at his mother.
“Passport?”
May you like
Teresa nodded frantically, tears streaming down the creases of her face. She reached out, gripping Luca’s lapel with her frail knuckles, pulling him down until his eyes met hers.
“Switzerland,” Teresa choked out. “She... take... Sophie... Switzerland.”
Related Stories
