Chapter 3 - THE BROKEN CAMERA IN HALLWAY B AND THE ENFORCER NAMED MERCER
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Morning in the Moretti mansion broke behind a wall of slate-gray clouds that rolled off Lake Michigan, coating the sprawling manicured lawns in a cold, drizzling mist.
By seven-fifteen, Mrs. Carter had already brought me a tray of hot black tea, poached eggs, and fresh toast, along with a clean set of clothes: a pair of dark, tailored wool trousers, an ivory cashmere sweater, and a heavy camel-colored wool coat that smelled faintly of expensive department store tissue paper.
"These aren't maid’s clothes," I said, touching the absurdly soft fabric of the cashmere sleeve.
"You aren't working as a maid anymore, Olivia," Mrs. Carter said softly, setting a small leather toiletry kit on the dresser. "Mr. Moretti gave strict instructions. Put them on. Dr. Harris wants to change that dressing before you go down to the motor court."
The doctor arrived ten minutes later, replacing the thick gauze over my left eye with a smaller, flesh-toned surgical pad that allowed my right eye full peripheral vision. The bruising had turned a deep, mottled shade of plum and greenish-yellow along the lower cheekbone, but the swelling had subsided enough that I could keep my eye partially open.
"Keep the antibiotic ointment on it twice a day," Dr. Harris instructed, snapping his leather case shut. "And try not to get hit again. You’re lucky that ring didn't shatter the orbital floor, Miss Vance. Half an inch higher, and you’d have permanent retinal damage."
"Thank you, Doctor," I murmured.
At seven-fifty, the biometric lock chimed, and a tall, broad-shouldered man with a clean-shaven head and a dark charcoal suit entered the room. He had the unmistakable posture of a former military contractor, with an earpiece curling behind his left ear and cold, watchful blue eyes.
"Miss Vance?" he asked, dipping his head in a polite nod. "I’m Dante, Mr. Moretti’s chief of personal security. If you’re ready, the boss is waiting in the subterranean garage."
I swallowed the lump in my throat, pulled on the heavy camel coat, and followed him out of the room.
We didn't take the main elevators or the grand staircase. Instead, Dante led me through a disguised door behind a section of wood paneling, leading into an industrial service elevator lined with reinforced steel plates. The elevator descended three levels beneath the estate, far past the standard wine cellars and laundry facilities.
When the doors opened with a heavy hydraulic hiss, the smell hit me first: damp concrete, cold motor oil, exhaust fumes, and the sharp, metallic tang of iron.
The underground garage was enormous, housing a fleet of armored black Cadillac Escalades, vintage sports cars, and tactical pursuit vehicles. But Dante didn't lead me toward the luxury cars. He guided me toward the far corner of the subterranean complex, where an isolated wash bay had been cordoned off by heavy, translucent industrial plastic curtains.
Behind the plastic, a single overhead halogen work lamp cast a harsh, blinding cone of yellow light onto the wet concrete.
Standing at the edge of the light was Luca Moretti.
He was dressed in a dark charcoal three-piece suit without an overcoat, his hands shoved casually into his trouser pockets, watching the center of the bay with a cold, detached intensity that made my stomach lurch.
Tied securely to a heavy cast-iron bollard bolted into the concrete floor was Mercer.
The ex-mercenary was barely recognizable. His expensive designer shirt was shredded and soaked in sweat and grime. His face was swollen, his lips split, and his right hand—the one that had worn the Bellini signet ring when he struck me—was wrapped in crude, blood-stained athletic tape, the fingers bent at unnatural, sickening angles.
When the plastic curtain rustled behind me, Mercer slowly raised his head, his swollen eyes blinking against the glare. When his gaze landed on me, his jaw tightened in pure, impotent rage.
"You brought the little scullery whore down here?" Mercer spat, his voice thick with phlegm and blood. "You’re breaking the family treaty over a girl who washes dishes, Moretti? Antonio Bellini is going to skin you alive."
Luca didn't flinch. He didn't even look at Mercer. He turned his head slowly toward me, his gray eyes sweeping over my face, noting the smaller bandage and the cashmere sweater.
"Come here, Olivia," Luca said softly.
My legs felt like lead weights, but Dante gave me a gentle, reassuring nod from behind. I walked forward into the circle of halogen light, stopping two paces away from Luca, keeping a wide berth from the bleeding giant tied to the iron post.
"Look at him," Luca instructed.
I looked. Despite Mercer's battered state, the memory of his massive hand slamming into my face in that narrow corridor flashed behind my eyes, making my heart gallop with panic.
"Is this the man who hit you?" Luca asked.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Did anyone else lay a hand on you in that hallway?"
"No. Only him. Vanessa was watching, but Mercer threw the punch."
Luca nodded once. He took two slow steps toward Mercer, stopping just out of kicking range. He pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket, flicked open the lid, and extracted a single clove cigarette. He struck a match with one thumbnail, the small flare illuminating the lethal sharpness of his features.
"You see, Mercer," Luca said, exhaling a thin stream of aromatic gray smoke into the damp air, "my fiancée had a very interesting explanation for Olivia’s injury last night. She stood in front of twenty-six high-ranking city officials and told them Olivia walked into an oak pantry door."
Mercer let out a wet, rattling chuckle. "Then you should have believed your fiancée, Moretti. She’s the one with the pedigree. This girl is garbage from the 24th Ward."
"Pedigree doesn't buy loyalty," Luca said calmly. "And it certainly doesn't buy competence. You made three critical mistakes yesterday afternoon, Mercer."
Luca took another slow pull from his cigarette, holding up one finger.
"First, you assumed the hallway B surveillance camera was completely disabled because your contact in my IT department routed the feed through a fifteen-minute loop."
Mercer’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Luca held up a second finger. "Second, you assumed that because my father signed an alliance with Antonio Bellini five years ago, I would hesitate to dismantle your entire bloodline the moment you crossed the threshold of my private residence."
Luca stepped closer, close enough that the smoke from his cigarette drifted into Mercer’s broken face. He held up a third finger.
"And third... you thought you could take evidence regarding Elena Castiglione out of this house without me noticing."
At the mention of Elena’s name, the cocky defiance drained completely from Mercer’s bruised features, replaced by a cold, sickening realization.
"I... I don't know what you’re talking about," Mercer stammered, his bravado crumbling. "Vanessa just told me to get the envelope from the study. She said it was private family business—"
"Dante," Luca interrupted quietly.
Dante stepped forward from the shadows, carrying a heavy, battered steel laptop. He flipped open the screen and angled it toward Mercer.
On the screen was a detailed bank transaction record from an offshore account registered in Grand Cayman, dated three days prior. A wire transfer of four hundred and fifty thousand dollars had been initiated from an account owned by Bellini Logistics, routed through three shell corporations, and deposited directly into a Swiss account under the name of a private ballistics expert in Zurich.
"You weren't just retrieving a photograph, were you, Mercer?" Luca murmured, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly soft register. "You were coordinating the delivery of the second file. The one Vanessa bragged about outside Olivia’s room last night."
Mercer swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing erratically. "Moretti, listen to me... you don't know what you’re stepping into. If you touch me, Antonio will shut down the Calumet railway lines. The whole East Coast syndicate will turn on you—"
Luca tossed the smoldering cigarette onto the concrete floor and ground it beneath the polished leather sole of his shoe.
He reached into Dante’s open tactical holster, drew a matte-black Beretta 92FS with effortless, fluid muscle memory, racked the slide with a clean, metallic *clack*, and pressed the cold muzzle directly against Mercer’s taped right knee.
Mercer went instantly pale. "Wait—Moretti, wait! Don't!"
"I am going to ask you one question," Luca said, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. "Where is the original negative of the Drake Hotel photograph?"
"I don't have it!" Mercer shrieked, pressing himself back against the iron bollard as far as his bindings would allow. "I swear to God on my mother's soul, I don't have it! Vanessa has it! She keeps it in the safety deposit box at the Lake Forest Trust bank! She has the only key!"
Luca stared into the man’s terrified eyes for five agonizing seconds. He was reading the micro-expressions, the dilation of his pupils, the sweat beading across his forehead.
Slowly, Luca lowered the weapon, decocked the hammer with his thumb, and handed the gun back to Dante.
Mercer let out a shuddering, gasping breath of pure relief. "Thank you... Christ, Moretti, thank you—"
"Dante," Luca said, turning his back on the prisoner and adjusting his cuffs.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Put him in the trunk of the black sedan. Drive him to Antonio Bellini’s front gates in Lake Forest. Dump him on their private driveway like a bag of lawn clippings. Tape Dr. Harris’s medical report of Olivia’s bruised face directly to his chest, along with a note from my office."
"What should the note say, sir?" Dante asked.
Luca turned toward me, his slate eyes meeting mine across the damp concrete. A subtle, dangerous spark danced in the depths of his gaze.
"Tell Antonio that his daughter has twenty-four hours to surrender the bank key," Luca said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls like rolling thunder. "Or I will burn every ship bearing the Bellini flag until the waters of Lake Michigan turn to steam."
He extended his right arm toward me. "Come, Olivia. We have a meeting in the city."
May you like
My knees were trembling so violently I wasn't sure I could walk, but I stepped around the wash bay, placed my gloved hand onto the crook of his offered elbow, and allowed Chicago’s most feared criminal mastermind to escort me out of the cellar.
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