Chapter 8 - THE WOODEN BOX
Luca took the small wooden box from the officer. It was old, made of polished mahogany, with a brass clasp.
"This isn't mine," Luca said, his brow furrowing. "I've never seen it before."
"It must be Patrick's," I said, stepping closer. "He had a collection of antique boxes in his study. He used to keep his grandfather's coins in them."
"We need to log it as evidence," the officer said. "Do you know what's inside?"
"No," I replied.
Luca ran his thumb over the brass clasp. It wasn't locked with a key, just a stiff latch. He popped it open.
Inside the box rested a single, folded photograph. It was old, the edges yellowed and frayed.
Luca pulled it out and unfolded it.
I watched as all the warmth drained from Luca's face. His jaw locked, and his eyes darkened with a sudden, terrifying intensity.
"Luca?" Isabella asked, stepping toward her brother. "What is it?"
Luca didn't answer. He just stared at the photograph, his breathing shallow.
He turned the photo around so we could see it.
It was a picture of a man in his sixties, sitting at a cafe table. The man looked strikingly like Luca, but older, with silver at his temples.
"That's our father," Isabella gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
I looked closer. There was something drawn over the picture. A thick, red circle was drawn around the older man's head, with a crosshair in the center.
"Why would Patrick have a picture of your father?" I asked, a cold knot forming in my stomach.
Luca flipped the photograph over.
On the back, written in Patrick's unmistakable handwriting, were three words:
Contract fulfilled. 2018.
Isabella let out a strangled cry. "No. No, that's impossible."
I stared at the date. 2018. That was eight years ago.
"Your father died in a car accident eight years ago," I said, remembering the news stories from when I first heard of the Moretti family.
"We thought it was an accident," Luca said, his voice vibrating with a quiet, lethal rage. "The brakes failed on the mountain road."
He looked at me, his eyes burning into mine.
"Your husband wasn't just a real estate broker who got into debt, Julia," Luca said. "He's been involved with the syndicate for a very, very long time. He's a cleaner. A hitman."
I felt the room tilt. "No. Patrick is a coward. He couldn't kill someone."
"He just tried to shoot his way out of this room," Luca reminded me harshly. "He was willing to let his own wife be collateral damage. He was going to sell your house and abandon you in an asylum."
I looked at the photograph again. The red crosshair. The handwriting.
Contract fulfilled.
My husband, the man who complained about taking out the trash and helped our daughter with her math homework, had murdered the head of the Moretti mafia family. And he had kept the trophy.
"He didn't target Isabella by accident," Luca deduced, his mind working rapidly. "He didn't stumble into our family. He was planted. He was sent to finish the job he started eight years ago."
Panic surged through the room again.
"If Patrick is a syndicate hitman," Isabella whispered, "then the people who hired him..."
"...Are probably still watching," Luca finished.
Suddenly, the grand crystal chandeliers above us flickered.
May you like
Once. Twice.
Then, the entire mansion plunged into pitch blackness.
