Chapter 10 - THE BLOOD ON THE BRASS KEY
I stared at the crimson stain smeared across the jagged teeth of the antique brass key.
“Blood?” I whispered, taking an involuntary step back from Luca. “How did that get in my coat?”
Luca’s expression hardened into the ruthless mafia boss I had seen earlier that night. He grabbed a clean towel from the counter and wrapped the key in it, careful not to smudge the evidence.
“Where was your coat all night, Emily?” he demanded, his eyes scanning the kitchen.
“In the staff closet by the back exit,” I answered, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs. “I haven’t touched it since I arrived at three o'clock.”
Luca immediately strode down the hallway toward the staff quarters. I hurried behind him, my footsteps echoing against the tile floor.
He shoved the door to the small closet open. The single overhead bulb flickered, casting long shadows over the empty hangers.
“Did you see anyone near this room during dinner?” Luca asked, inspecting the floorboards.
I shook my head. “No. Everyone was in the main dining hall. Except...”
I paused, thinking back to the chaos after Vanessa spilled the wine.
“Except who, Emily?”
“Elena,” I realized softly. “When Michael started having his panic attack, his wife ran out of the room to get his medication from the car. She would have passed right by this closet.”
Luca went completely still.
“Elena,” he repeated, the name tasting like ash.
He turned around and marched toward the main foyer.
I followed him out to the driveway. The night air was freezing, biting through my thin sweater.
Michael and Elena were standing by their black SUV. Elena was wrapping a scarf around Michael’s neck, kissing his cheek softly. They looked so happy. So relieved.
“Mike,” Luca called out, his voice cutting through the freezing air.
Michael turned, smiling. “Hey, brother. We’re just heading out.”
Luca walked right past him and stopped directly in front of Elena.
“Give me your hands, Elena,” Luca ordered.
Elena’s smile faltered. “Luca? What’s wrong?”
“Give me your hands,” he repeated, his voice dangerously low.
She slowly raised her hands. She was wearing expensive black leather gloves.
“Take them off.”
Michael frowned, stepping between them. “Luca, what the hell are you doing? She’s exhausted.”
“I’m protecting you, Mike,” Luca didn’t look away from Elena. “Take the gloves off, Elena.”
Her jaw tightened. Slowly, she pulled the left glove off. Her fingers were manicured and clean.
She pulled the right glove off.
Across her palm was a deep, fresh slice, clumsily bandaged with a piece of gauze that was soaking through with dark red blood.
Michael gasped, grabbing her hand. “Elena! What happened to you?”
“I cut it on a broken glass in the dining room,” Elena lied smoothly, pulling her hand back.
“There was no broken glass where you were sitting,” I said, stepping up beside Luca.
Elena shot me a look of pure venom. It was the same look Vanessa had given me an hour earlier, but colder. Smarter.
Luca held up the towel containing the bloody brass key.
“Why did you put the key to the Italian estate in Emily’s coat, Elena?”
Michael looked between his brother and his wife in total bewilderment. “The Italian estate? Luca, Dad sold that place thirty years ago.”
“He didn’t sell it,” Luca said, his eyes locked on his sister-in-law. “He hid it. And apparently, Elena found it.”
Elena sighed, a long, tired sound that seemed to age her ten years in a second.
“I wasn’t hiding it from you, Luca,” Elena said quietly, her voice devoid of any warmth. “I was hiding it from the people who are coming for it.”
“Who?” Luca demanded.
Elena reached into the glove compartment of the SUV.
She pulled out a thick stack of folded papers, bound by a rubber band.
She handed them to Luca.
“Tax receipts,” Elena said. “For the property in Sicily. I’ve been paying them in cash for the last seven years.”
Luca unfolded the papers, scanning the Italian text. His brow furrowed in deep confusion.
“Why?” Luca asked. “Why would you pay taxes on a ruined castle in Sicily?”
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Elena looked at Michael, her eyes filling with a strange, defensive sorrow.
“Because of what’s buried in the garden,” Elena whispered.
