Chapter 3 - The Sanctuary in the East Wing
At 11:45 PM, the second-floor gallery corridor was bathed in the pale amber glow of shaded brass sconces.
The mansion was silent, save for the muffled roar of the rain hitting the cypress shingles above.
Marco met us outside Vanessa Bellini’s private guest suite, holding an electronic master keycard and a suppressed tactical pistol at the low ready.
“Her two private guards from the Bellini estate were disarmed at the service gate, boss,” Marco whispered. “No shots fired. Miss Bellini consumed half a bottle of valerian tincture twenty minutes ago. She is sound asleep.”
Luca gave a single, curt nod. “Open the lock.”
The electronic bolt slid back with a soft, oiled click.
Luca pushed the mahogany door open, stepping into the darkened bedroom.
The room was suffocatingly warm, smelling of heavy tuberoses, amber perfume, and damp silk.
Vanessa lay sprawled across the king-sized four-poster bed, draped in an ivory satin nightgown, her blonde curls tangled over the lace pillows, her breathing heavy and rhythmic. On the antique dressing table sat her diamond tiara, her alligator evening clutches, and an open crocodile-skin train case.
Luca walked directly past the bed, ignoring the sleeping woman as if she were a corpse.
He stopped before the armoire, opening the mirrored doors.
Resting on the velvet shelf inside was a flat, leather-bound folio stamped with the wax seal of the Bank of Geneva.
Luca lifted the folio beneath the lamplight.
He unhooked the brass hasp.
Inside lay the sliced parchment backing from his mother’s portrait, along with fifty million dollars in original, unredeemed bearer bonds.
Beside the bonds was an unmailed envelope addressed to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s field office in New Orleans, containing the forged grain manifests bearing Luca’s falsified signature.
Luca turned the documents over in his hands. His face didn't register surprise, or sorrow, or shock. It was the face of an executioner verifying the name on a warrant.
“Charles Vance sliced my mother’s canvas with an eight-gauge scalpel,” Luca said softly, his voice cutting through the humid air of the bedroom.
“And received a two-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit slip drawn on the Bellini commercial account in Nassau thirty minutes later,” Marco confirmed, handing Luca a carbon bank receipt found inside the vanity drawer.
Luca closed the folio with a clean, final snap.
He looked at the woman sleeping on the bed.
“Leave her until dawn,” Luca commanded quietly. “Let her put on her white veil. Let her father arrive with his capos. She planned to bury me in front of thirty river barons—it is only fitting that she answers for her treason before the same assembly.”
He turned toward me, his dark eyes softening by a fraction as he took in my trembling frame and the white fiberglass splint resting against my apron.
“Marco, escort Elena to the master suite in the east wing. Have Mrs. Gable prepare the guest bath and bring her clean clothes from the family wardrobe. No one disturbs her tonight.”
“Mr. Moretti,” I whispered, hesitating on the threshold. “The portrait... the canvas was ruined.”
Luca looked down at me, his fingers gently brushing the hair back from my brow.
May you like
“Canvas can be rewoven, Elena,” he said softly. “The truth cannot. Get some rest.”
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