Chapter 5 - THE DRAWING AND THE COAT
“Marcus?”
Luca’s voice was a dangerous whisper. “My head of security. The man who has guarded my daughter’s bedroom door for the last five years.”
I nodded slowly, terrified. “Yes, Mr. Moretti. He wears a yellow oilskin coat with a corduroy red collar when it rains. I... I hung it in the mudroom downstairs just this afternoon.”
Roberto cursed loudly in Italian.
“Bellini didn't just infiltrate your accounts, Luca,” Roberto said, pacing the dusty floor. “He bought your inner circle. The man protecting your child is the man who murdered her mother.”
Luca’s expression turned into something terrifying. The polished, elegant businessman vanished. In his place stood the ruthless boss of the Chicago syndicate.
He didn't scream. He didn't break anything.
He just pulled his gun from its holster and checked the magazine.
“I’m going downstairs,” Luca said smoothly.
“No!” I blurted out.
Luca stopped, surprised by my outburst. Even Roberto paused.
I clutched Isabella closer. My hands were sweating. “Please, listen to me. If Marcus is working for Mr. Bellini, you can't just shoot him. There are fifty guests downstairs. Bellini brought his own bodyguards. If you pull a gun, a war will start in the dining room.”
“She’s right, Luca,” Roberto urged. “Vincent Bellini is waiting for an excuse. He has the numbers tonight.”
Luca’s jaw ticked. “I am not letting the man who killed my wife stand in my foyer for another second.”
“Then we need absolute proof,” I said, my voice shaking but determined. “If you prove Marcus killed her in front of the other family bosses downstairs, Bellini’s men won’t protect him. The code of the families strictly forbids killing a boss’s wife. If you show them the proof, Bellini loses his power instantly.”
Luca stared at me.
For a twenty-five-year-old maid, I was suddenly speaking like a mafia strategist. But growing up poor in Chicago with a sick mother, you learned quickly how to read power dynamics to survive.
“What proof?” Luca asked. “A ten-year-old’s crayon drawing isn’t going to convince the Five Families.”
“The coat,” I said.
I looked at Isabella. “Sweetheart, did the man in the yellow coat put anything in his pocket before he left?”
Isabella scrunched up her face, thinking hard. “He put a piece of paper in it. It looked like a store receipt. It fell out of his hand, and he got really mad and stuffed it in his pocket.”
Roberto’s eyes widened. “The mechanic’s shop. If he paid a dirty mechanic for the specialized tools to tamper with a luxury car’s brake lines, the receipt might still be there.”
“Marcus is arrogant,” Luca muttered. “He thinks he got away with it. He wears that coat like a trophy.”
Luca looked at me.
“Where did you hang it, Emily?”
“In the staff mudroom, off the kitchen.”
Luca nodded. “I will go down the back stairs. I’ll search the coat.”
“No,” I interrupted again.
Luca raised an eyebrow.
“Sir, if the boss walks into the staff mudroom during his own engagement party, Marcus will know something is wrong. He’ll alert Bellini immediately.”
I swallowed hard, finding courage I didn't know I had.
“I have to do it. I’m the maid. I have a reason to be in the mudroom.”
“Absolutely not,” Luca said instantly. “I am not sending you into the lion’s den. It’s too dangerous.”
“I can do it,” I insisted. “My mother raised me to be invisible, Mr. Moretti. I can slip in, search the pockets, and slip out.”
Roberto looked at Luca. “She’s the only one who can do this without raising suspicion, Luca.”
Luca looked at me. His dark eyes were filled with a profound sense of gratitude and fear.
He reached out and gently grasped my shoulder. His hand was warm and strong.
“Be careful, Emily,” he whispered. “If he catches you, scream. I don't care about the consequences. I will tear this house down to get to you.”
A strange warmth fluttered in my chest. For the first time in my life, someone powerful was promising to protect me.
I nodded, gave Isabella a reassuring smile, and slipped out of the study.
I crept down the servants’ staircase. The heavy bass of the string quartet playing in the dining room grew louder as I reached the ground floor.
I pushed through the swinging doors into the massive, empty kitchen.
The catering staff was busy serving dessert in the main hall. The kitchen was dead quiet.
I tiptoed toward the mudroom at the back of the house.
The door was ajar.
I slipped inside. The smell of wet wool and expensive cologne filled the small space.
There it was. Hanging on the third hook. The bright yellow oilskin coat with the red corduroy collar.
My heart pounded furiously. I reached out and slid my hand into the right pocket.
Nothing but a pack of gum.
I checked the left pocket.
My fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of thick paper.
I pulled it out.
It was a faded, grease-stained receipt from a salvage yard on the South Side.
Item: High-Tension Wire Cutters.
Date: October 14th.
The exact day Elena Moretti died.
I had it. The proof.
I turned around to leave.
And crashed directly into a solid wall of muscle.
A heavy hand clamped over my mouth, stifling my scream.
I looked up in sheer terror.
Standing over me, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, was Marcus.
May you like
He looked down at the receipt in my hand. He smiled, a cold, dead expression.
“Snooping through my pockets, little maid?” Marcus whispered, drawing a combat knife from his belt. “Vanessa was right. You really are a problem.”
