Chapter 5 - Meeting the Ghost of Gold Coast
Lincoln Park was quiet at seven-thirty in the morning.
A thin blanket of autumn mist rolled off Lake Michigan, clinging to the brick
facades and wrought-iron railings of the historic brownstones along Fullerton
Parkway.
We arrived in an unmarked, black armored sedan. Daniel remained in the driver’s
seat, his engine idling at the curb, his eyes scanning the quiet street for any
unfamiliar vehicles.
Luca had traded his tailored suit for dark slacks, a charcoal wool coat, and a
dark scarf. Beside him, I wore a simple black wool coat provided by the estate
staff, my dark hair falling over my shoulders, carefully parted to conceal the
purple bruise along my cheek.
We walked up the limestone steps of a stunning four-story Victorian brownstone.
Luca didn't ring the bell. He tapped the heavy brass knocker three times,
paused, and tapped twice more—a specific, rhythmic cadence.
Two minutes passed.
The heavy oak door cracked open, secured by an interior brass security chain.
A pair of brilliant hazel eyes appeared in the opening, sharp, intelligent, and
instantly wary.
“Luca,” a smooth, melodic voice said. “You’re breaking the protocol. Our legal
representatives agreed to communicate exclusively through certified mail.”
“Sophia,” Luca said, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. “I need five
minutes. This isn't about the Bellagio settlement.”
The woman behind the door hesitated. Her gaze drifted past Luca’s broad
shoulder, landing directly on me.
Her eyes widened slightly as she noticed the swelling beneath my hair.
“Who is that girl, Luca?” Sophia asked, her tone shifting from cold irritation
to sudden concern. “Why did you bring an injured girl to my door at seven in the
morning?”
“Her name is Olivia Hayes,” Luca replied. “She works in my home. And she took
that injury eighteen hours ago trying to stop Vanessa Bellini from destroying
both of our lives.”
A heavy silence hung between them.
The brass chain rattled against the doorframe. The door swung wide open.
Sophia Moretti was breathtaking. Even dressed in simple black leggings and an
oversized cream knit sweater, without a trace of makeup, she possessed an
effortless, aristocratic elegance. But around her eyes were fine lines of
guarded exhaustion—the unmistakable mark of someone who had survived the brutal
machinations of Chicago’s underworld.
“Come inside,” Sophia said, stepping back into the warm, sunlit foyer.
“Quickly.”
The brownstone was decorated with warm woods, sprawling bookshelves, and
delicate oil paintings. It felt entirely different from the sterile, fortified
mansion in Lake Forest; it felt like a real home.
Sophia led us into a bright kitchen overlooking a private courtyard garden. She
filled a kettle, set it on the stove, and turned to face us, leaning her hips
against the marble counter.
“Sit down, both of you,” she said.
Luca and I sat at the round oak breakfast table.
Sophia didn't look at her ex-husband first. She walked straight to my chair,
reached out with gentle, warm fingers, and lightly pushed my hair away from my
injured cheekbone.
She inhaled sharply. “That was a blunt-force strike against a brass fixture. I
recognize the mark.”
She looked up at Luca, her eyes blazing with sudden fury. “Did your guards do
this to her?”
“No,” Luca said, his voice tight. “Vanessa Bellini’s private investigator shoved
her into a doorframe when she walked in on them upstairs.”
Sophia pulled back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why was Vanessa meeting
an investigator in your home?”
Luca reached into his coat and placed the glossy eight-by-ten photograph from
last Tuesday on the table.
Sophia looked down at it. She saw herself, laughing beneath Luca’s umbrella
outside the restaurant.
“Mercer was paid two hundred thousand dollars to deliver that to your doorstep
this morning,” Luca explained. “He was instructed to tell you that Vanessa and I
had been lovers for five years—long before our divorce.”
Sophia’s face drained of color.
She slowly sank into the chair opposite us, her hands trembling as she touched
the edge of the photograph.
“Why?” Sophia whispered, her voice cracking with raw, unhealed pain. “Why would
she want me to believe that?”
I leaned forward, my voice clear and steady.
“Because Vanessa wants the grandfather’s signet seal, Mrs. Moretti,” I said.
Sophia’s head snapped toward me, her eyes wide with shock. “What did you say?”
“Vanessa knows you have the seal that validates the 1994 ledger,” I continued.
“She told the investigator that if you believed Luca had betrayed you for five
years, your grief and anger would make you destroy the seal before Luca could
ever use it. And without that seal, the Bellini family seizes the northern docks
permanently.”
Sophia stared at me, then looked at Luca.
Tears welled in her eyes, but they weren't tears of sorrow; they were tears of
bitter, furious revelation.
“The divorce,” Sophia whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. “Four years
ago... the anonymous letters I received... the photos of other women... the
phone calls in the middle of the night...”
Luca’s eyes darkened with profound, agonizing regret. “It was Carmine Bellini.
He spent three years manufacturing evidence to convince you that I was
unfaithful, Sophia. He wanted our families divided so he could move on the
docks.”
Sophia closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering breath that seemed to
carry four years of buried heartbreak.
When she opened them again, the vulnerability was gone. In its place was the
fierce, unyielding resolve of an Italian boss’s daughter.
She stood up from the table, walked to the far corner of the kitchen, and
stopped in front of an antique upright piano.
She reached under the heavy mahogany bench, found a hidden release latch, and
pulled out a small, ornate wooden box carved from antique olive wood.
She brought it to the table and set it between us.
“The seal is inside,” Sophia said. “Along with the letters Carmine Bellini sent
to my father thirty years ago.”
May you like
She looked at Luca, her gaze steady, forgiving, yet absolute.
“Take it, Luca. Destroy them.”
