A Secret Hidden In A Coat Pocket

Luca didn’t waste a second.

He shoved Vanessa into Michael’s closet and locked the heavy wooden door from the outside.

“Stay here,” he ordered Sophie, his voice sharp and terrifyingly calm.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No. If she gets out, she’ll kill you. Lock this bedroom door and don’t open it for anyone but me.”

Before Sophie could argue, Luca was sprinting down the hallway.

The string quartet’s music swelled as he reached the top of the grand staircase. Below, the twenty-six guests were mingling in the foyer, holding crystal flutes of champagne.

Luca’s eyes scanned the crowd.

He spotted his mother, Eleanor. She was sitting in a velvet armchair by the fireplace, smiling politely at a tall, silver-haired man.

Arthur Bellini.

Vanessa’s supposed father.

Arthur was holding two glasses of champagne. He leaned in, offering one to Eleanor.

“...and right now, he’s slipping poison into your mother’s champagne.”

Luca took the stairs three at a time.

“Mother!”

His voice cut through the chatter. The music faltered. Guests turned to look at him.

Eleanor paused, her hand halfway to the glass Arthur was offering.

Luca crossed the room in long strides. Before his mother could take the glass, Luca snatched it directly from Arthur’s hand.

“Luca!” Eleanor gasped, scandalized. “What has gotten into you?”

Arthur smiled. It was a polite, fatherly smile, but his eyes were entirely dead. “Everything alright, son?”

“I was just thirsty,” Luca said, staring into Arthur’s eyes.

Luca lifted the glass as if to drink it.

Arthur’s smile didn’t waver, but his fingers twitched. A microscopic tell.

Instead of drinking, Luca let the glass slip from his fingers.

It shattered on the marble floor, the champagne fizzing violently as it soaked into the rug.

Gasps rippled through the guests.

“How clumsy of me,” Luca said softly. He grabbed Arthur by the elbow, his grip like a vice. “Arthur, let me show you to the smoking room to clean off your shoes.”

“My shoes are fine,” Arthur said, trying to pull away.

Luca leaned in, pressing the barrel of a concealed pistol against Arthur’s ribs, hidden perfectly beneath his tuxedo jacket.

“Walk,” Luca whispered.

Arthur stiffened, then allowed himself to be led down the hall.

Once they were inside the soundproofed smoking room, Luca threw the man against the mahogany bookshelves.

“Who are you?” Luca demanded.

Arthur chuckled, straightening his lapels. “I’m a hired actor, Mr. Moretti. Vanessa paid me twenty thousand dollars to play her father for the weekend.”

“You’re an assassin for Dmitri Romanov.”

Arthur’s amusement vanished. “You’re smarter than your brother was.”

“Why are you poisoning my mother?”

“A distraction,” Arthur said flatly. “An elderly woman collapses at an engagement party. Heart attack, the paramedics say. The estate goes into chaos. The security gates open for the ambulance. It’s the perfect cover for a quiet exit.”

“For you and Vanessa.”

“And the boy.”

Luca’s gun pressed harder into Arthur’s chest. “You’re taking Leo to Montreal.”

“Romanov wants his son back,” Arthur sneered. “Vanessa thought she could run, but Dmitri always finds what belongs to him. I was sent to retrieve the boy and eliminate the loose ends. Vanessa thought she was using me. She didn’t realize I was using her.”

As Arthur spoke, he adjusted his cuffs.

The sleeve of his tuxedo jacket slid up, revealing a thick silver bracelet on his wrist.

Luca’s breath caught in his throat.

The bracelet was heavy, braided silver, with a distinct dent near the clasp.

Luca knew that dent. He had caused it twelve years ago when he threw a baseball at his brother’s wrist.

It was Michael’s bracelet. The one he was wearing the day he died.

“Where did you get that?” Luca’s voice trembled with a rage he hadn’t felt in a decade.

Arthur looked down at his wrist and smirked. “A souvenir. From a car crash outside Lake Geneva.”

Luca didn’t think. He slammed the butt of his gun into Arthur’s jaw.

The older man crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he hit the rug.

Luca ripped the bracelet off Arthur’s wrist, his hands shaking.

Michael’s death hadn’t been an accident. Arthur had run him off the road.