Chapter 6 - Midnight on the Mississippi
The grand ballroom of the Moretti estate was illuminated by three massive Austrian crystal chandeliers, filled with forty syndicate capos, river freight commissioners, and municipal judges drinking vintage port and eating roasted quail.
At the center of the head table stood Luca Moretti, wearing his bespoke black three-piece tuxedo.
Around his wrist gleamed a solid platinum watch that had belonged to his late father.
Standing to his left was Marco, his tactical harness concealed beneath a tailored wool overcoat.
And sitting in the high-backed armchair directly to Luca’s right, wearing an elegant gown of dark navy silk that draped gracefully over her cast, was me.
The double mahogany doors swung open.
Vanessa Bellini walked into the hall on the arm of her father, Don Salvatore Bellini.
Vanessa was breathtaking in an off-white couture bridal gown of Chantilly lace and cascading silk tulle, her face radiant with rehearsed, triumphant perfection. Her father, a heavy-set man of sixty-four with slicked-back silver hair and cold, calculating blue eyes, smiled expansively at the assembly.
They believed their scheme was rolling forward in the shadows.
They believed Charles Vance had successfully devalued the bonds, that the federal marshals were staging at the Poydras wharf, and that within two hours, Luca would be in federal custody while they assumed complete operational control over the Gulf Coast shipping corridors.
When Vanessa reached the head of the table, she looked at Luca, offering a demure, rehearsed smile.
Then her eyes drifted down to the chair beside him.
She saw me.
She saw the navy silk gown, the clean white fiberglass cast resting on a velvet cushion, and the quiet, fearless dignity in my eyes.
Vanessa’s smile froze. Her hand tightened on her father’s arm until her diamond bracelets rattled.
“Luca, darling...” Vanessa began, her voice tight and high-pitched. “Why is your domestic cleaner sitting at the high council table on our wedding morning?”
Luca didn't smile. He didn't answer her.
He reached onto the table, picked up his silver water goblet, and tapped the rim with a silver spoon.
The clear, ringing chime cut through the room like an executioner’s bell.
The forty capos fell dead silent.
Luca turned his gray, predatory eyes directly onto Salvatore Bellini.
“Salvatore,” Luca said, his voice quiet enough that every man in the room leaned forward to hear.
“Yes, Luca, my boy?” Salvatore answered, a sharp flicker of unease passing through his patrician features.
“Eight years ago, my mother passed away in this house,” Luca said softly. “She left behind a portrait in the private gallery. A portrait no one was permitted to touch.”
Salvatore’s throat bobbed. “A beautiful tribute, Luca. We all respected Donna Isabella.”
Luca tapped a button on the remote console resting beside his plate.
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“Then why did your private restorer spend yesterday afternoon slicing the canvas open with an eight-gauge scalpel to extract fifty million dollars in Swiss bearer bonds?”
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