Chapter 2 - THE SCAR ON THE DRIVER'S WRIST
The silence in the dining room was suffocating.
Thirty-eight of Chicago’s most powerful people stared at Luca Moretti.
“Elias Thorne,” Luca repeated. His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thunderclap.
Vanessa stepped backward. The color drained completely from her flawless face.
“Luca, darling, it must be a mistake,” she stammered, her hands trembling. “Someone used a fake ID.”
Luca didn’t look at her. He kept his dark, terrifying gaze locked on me.
“Olivia. Describe the man who drove the truck.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
I was still on my knees amidst the shattered porcelain of the fake vase.
“He was older,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could. “Maybe late fifties. Gray hair. He wore a heavy coat, even though it was warm outside.”
“Anything else?” Luca demanded.
I closed my eyes, picturing the man loading the crates.
“When he reached for the clipboard,” I whispered, “I saw his left wrist. He had a severe burn scar. It looked like a lightning bolt.”
Luca went perfectly still.
Behind him, Daniel, the massive head of security, sucked in a sharp breath.
“Boss,” Daniel murmured. “That’s impossible.”
But Luca knew it wasn’t.
Elias Thorne was Luca’s former business partner. The man who had mentored him. The man who supposedly died in a fiery car crash two years ago—a crash that had nearly destroyed the Moretti empire.
“Elias is alive,” Luca said.
Vanessa’s panic turned into desperation.
“Even if he is, it doesn't mean anything!” she cried. “He must have stolen the crates to frame me! Luca, you know I would never—”
“Daniel,” Luca interrupted. His voice was ice.
“Yes, sir.”
“Take Vanessa to the guest wing. Lock the door. Confiscate her phone.”
Vanessa gasped. “You can’t do this! I am your fiancée!”
Luca finally turned to look at her.
“If you are lying to me, Vanessa, you won’t be my fiancée. You’ll be a ghost.”
He nodded to Daniel. Two security guards grabbed Vanessa by the arms and dragged her out of the dining room. Her screams echoed down the marble hallway.
The dinner guests were utterly silent.
Luca turned to them. “The evening is over. My guards will escort you to your vehicles.”
Within ten minutes, the grand mansion was empty of outsiders.
I was left kneeling on the floor, sweeping the last shards of broken porcelain into a dustpan.
Luca walked over and crouched beside me.
The terrifying mafia boss looked suddenly, profoundly exhausted.
“You noticed the manufacturer's stamp,” he said softly.
“Yes, sir. I used to restore antiques.”
“You have a good eye, Olivia. Better than the men I pay to protect this house.”
He stood up, offering me his hand.
I hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm and warm. He pulled me to my feet.
“Go to Vanessa’s suite,” Luca ordered quietly. “Pack her belongings. I want everything she owns in suitcases by midnight.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti.”
I walked up the sweeping grand staircase, my knees still shaking.
I entered the master suite. It smelled of Vanessa’s expensive perfume.
I pulled her designer luggage from the closet and began folding her clothes.
As I reached the back of her massive walk-in closet, my foot brushed against something hard hidden beneath a pile of winter blankets.
I pulled the blankets aside.
My breath caught in my throat.
Sitting in the dark corner of the closet was the real, sixty-thousand-dollar antique vase. The one with the golden repair along the neck.
Vanessa hadn’t sent it away. She had hidden it.
But why?
I carefully reached down and lifted the vase. It felt unnaturally heavy.
I tipped it slightly.
Something slid around inside.
I reached my hand into the narrow neck of the porcelain heirloom. My fingers brushed against cold metal and stiff leather.
I pulled it out.
It wasn't a piece of jewelry.
It was a heavy, silver pocket watch.
The glass face was shattered. The hands were frozen at 11:42.
But what made my stomach drop into my shoes wasn't the broken glass.
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It was the thick, dried blood caked into the silver grooves of the casing.
TITLE: The Blood On The Golden Pocket Watch
