Chapter 5 - THE GHOST
I stopped breathing.
The gun in Luca’s hand didn't waver, but I felt him stiffen beside me.
The man standing in the doorway looked exactly like the photographs sitting on our mantel. The same graying hair, the same broad shoulders, the same scar above his left eyebrow.
David Morgan.
My father. The man I had buried in a closed casket three years ago after a horrific car accident on the interstate.
“Dad?” I whispered, my voice cracking, unable to process the impossibility standing in front of me.
My mother was sobbing, her hands desperately clutching at the arm wrapped tightly around her neck.
“Don't look at him, Rachel!” my mother cried out. “It’s not him! It’s a trick!”
“Shut up, Maggie,” the man growled, pressing the barrel of the gun harder against her temple.
The voice.
It was his voice. Gruff, impatient, always laced with a simmering anger that I had spent my childhood tip-toeing around.
“How are you alive?” I choked out, stepping forward, completely ignoring the guns pointed in every direction. “We buried you.”
My father laughed, a cruel, familiar sound that sent a spike of pure ice through my chest.
“You buried a drifter who stole my wallet at a gas station, Rachel,” he sneered. “The fire took care of his face. It was the perfect exit.”
I felt physically sick. The grief, the tears, the years my mother spent working her fingers to the bone to pay off the debts he left behind—it was all a lie. He had faked his death to escape us.
“Why?” I demanded, tears of rage finally spilling over.
“Because I owed the Romanos fifty grand,” he spat. “And they were going to kill me. So I made a deal.”
Carmela began a slow, mocking clap from the top of the stairs.
“David has been a very useful asset,” Carmela smiled down at us. “When I needed a secure way to move the ledger and the diamonds without Luca’s men suspecting anything, David suggested his brilliant, unsuspecting seamstress wife.”
I stared at the man I had mourned.
He hadn't just abandoned us. He had intentionally painted a target on my mother’s back to save his own miserable life.
“You let them use her,” I whispered, absolute hatred replacing the shock.
“She’s a workhorse, Rachel,” my father said dismissively. “She doesn't ask questions. She just puts her head down and sews. It was foolproof.”
“Until Vanessa got greedy,” Carmela snapped, glaring down at Luca. “She was supposed to pay the woman and leave with the dress. But the stupid girl wanted to keep the money for herself.”
Luca’s expression was unreadable, a terrifying mask of calm calculation.
“So you kidnapped your own wife to force a trade,” Luca said, addressing my father.
“Hand over the ledger and the diamonds, Luca,” my father demanded, shifting his grip on my mother. “And I’ll let Maggie go. Then we all walk away.”
“Nobody is walking away,” Luca said softly.
He didn't look at my father. He looked at Carmela.
“Aunt Carmela, did you really think Marco Romano would let you live once you handed over the ledger?”
Carmela frowned, hesitating.
“Marco honors his deals,” she said defensively.
Luca let out a dark, mocking laugh.
“Marco Romano honors nothing. He used you to gather the evidence he needed to destroy my family from the inside. And once you give it to him, you are a loose end.”
Luca pulled his cell phone from his pocket with his free hand. He pressed a button and tossed it up the stairs. It landed at Carmela’s feet.
“Listen to the voicemail, Auntie,” Luca ordered.
Carmela picked up the phone cautiously. She pressed the screen to her ear.
I watched the color completely drain from her face. Her arrogant posture crumbled in seconds. She dropped the phone, her hands shaking violently.
“What did it say?” my father demanded, sounding nervous.
“It’s Marco Romano,” Carmela whispered, looking at Luca with wide, terrified eyes. “He... he authorized a hit on me. Tonight.”
“He played you, Carmela,” Luca said coldly. “And he played the ghost holding the gun to Margaret’s head.”
My father’s eyes darted frantically between Carmela and Luca. The control he thought he had was evaporating.
“Shut up!” my father yelled, pulling my mother tighter. “Give me the book, Luca, or I’ll blow her brains out right now!”
“No!” I screamed, lunging forward.
But I didn't reach him.
Because my mother, the quiet, submissive woman who had spent forty years taking orders, suddenly drove her elbow violently backward into my father’s ribs.
He grunted in pain, his grip loosening just enough.
My mother dropped to her knees, screaming, “DO IT, LUCA!”
Luca didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second.
He raised his weapon and fired two shots.
Deafening cracks echoed through the foyer.
My father stumbled backward, dropping his gun. He looked down at the two blooming red stains on his chest in absolute shock.
Then he collapsed backward into the hallway, dead before he hit the ground.
I didn't look at him. I couldn't.
I ran to my mother, dropping to the floor and throwing my arms around her. We sobbed, clutching each other on the cold marble floor.
“I’m sorry, Rachel,” my mother wept into my hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Mom,” I cried. “You saved us.”
I looked up.
Luca was standing over my father’s body, his face grim. He lowered his weapon and turned to Matteo.
“Clean this up,” Luca ordered. “And get Carmela out of my sight. Lock her in the basement of the casino. She can answer to the family council tomorrow.”
Carmela didn't fight as two guards grabbed her by the arms. She looked like a broken woman, completely defeated by her own greed.
Luca walked over to where my mother and I were huddled on the floor.
He knelt down, holstering his weapon. The ruthless mob boss vanished completely, leaving only the man who had stood up for a seamstress at his own engagement dinner.
He gently placed his hand on my mother’s shoulder.
“Margaret,” Luca said softly. “It’s over. You’re safe.”
My mother looked up at him, her eyes filled with profound gratitude.
“Thank you, Mr. Moretti,” she whispered.
Luca smiled faintly. “Call me Luca.”
He stood up, offering me his hand.
I took it, allowing him to pull me to my feet. His grip was warm and surprisingly gentle.
“Let’s go home,” Luca said, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
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And for the first time in my life, I realized that home wasn't the small suburban house with the broken sewing machine.
Home was wherever this man was.
