Chapter 8 - THE GHOST IN THE BOSTON APARTMENT
The heavy SUV swerved slightly as Marco hit a pothole, but I barely felt it.
The gold signet ring felt like a burning coal in my palm.
“My father?” I whispered, staring at Vanessa. “My father died when I was six. Before we moved to Chicago.”
Vanessa shook her head, her eyes filled with a tragic, exhausted clarity.
“He didn't die, Emma. He faked his death.”
Luca glanced at us through the rearview mirror. His eyes narrowed.
“Explain,” Luca demanded.
Vanessa took a deep breath. “Father Gabriel told me everything in the chapel before you walked in. Leo survived the hit your father put on him. He was badly wounded, but he escaped. He knew as long as he was Leo Bellini, your father would hunt him down.”
She looked at me.
“He met your mother, Sarah, the private nurse who was treating him in secret. They fell in love. He became Thomas Sullivan. They had a daughter.”
Me.
“But my father’s men found out,” Luca realized, the dark pieces locking into place. “That’s why your mother had to run to the train station with Marco.”
“Yes,” Vanessa said. “Leo—Thomas—stayed behind to fight them off so your mother could escape with you. He took the fall so you could live.”
Tears blurred my vision. The blurry flashes of memory from my childhood suddenly made sense. The loud bangs. The screaming. My mother grabbing me from my bed in the dead of night.
I wasn't just a maid.
I was a Bellini. Vanessa’s niece.
“We’re family,” Vanessa whispered, reaching out to touch my hand.
I pulled away, completely overwhelmed. I didn't know who I was anymore.
The SUV screeched to a halt in the underground parking garage of the Moretti Syndicate’s downtown high-rise.
Luca shifted into gear, the ruthless boss taking control once again.
“Emma, stay in the car,” Luca ordered, pulling a sleek black handgun from a hidden compartment under the seat.
“No,” I said, wiping my tears. I clenched the gold signet ring in my fist. “Arthur almost killed me tonight. He ruined my family. I’m coming with you.”
Luca studied my face for a second. He saw the Bellini fire in my eyes.
He nodded once.
Marco killed the engine. “The captains will be in the boardroom on the 40th floor.”
We moved through the service elevators, bypassing the security desk entirely. The ride up to the 40th floor was agonizingly silent.
When the elevator doors dinged open, two armed guards in suits were standing in the hallway.
They saw Luca and froze, looking like they had seen a ghost.
“Drop them,” Luca commanded softly.
The guards immediately dropped their weapons, raising their hands in total submission to their boss.
We walked to the massive double doors of the boardroom.
Inside, Arthur was standing at the head of a long mahogany table. Five of the most powerful mafia captains in Chicago sat listening to him.
“Luca Moretti is dead,” Arthur was saying, his voice filled with fake sorrow. “The Bellini girl set the fire. But the bloodline survives. Marco is the true heir, and I will guide him.”
Luca kicked the double doors open. They slammed against the walls with a deafening crash.
“You’re going to have a hard time guiding anyone from a coffin, Arthur,” Luca announced.
The room erupted. Captains jumped to their feet, reaching for their holsters.
“Stand down!” Luca roared, his voice echoing with absolute authority.
The captains froze. They looked at Luca, covered in soot and smelling of smoke, but very much alive.
Arthur turned pale. He stepped back, bumping into the large glass window overlooking the city.
“He’s an imposter!” Arthur shrieked in desperation. “Shoot him!”
None of the captains moved.
Marco stepped into the room, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Luca.
“He’s not an imposter,” Marco said clearly. “He’s my brother. And Arthur tried to burn us both alive tonight.”
Arthur’s eyes darted around the room, realizing he was completely trapped. He reached inside his jacket for his weapon.
Before he could draw it, a gunshot rang out.
Arthur gasped, his eyes going wide. He clutched his chest and collapsed to the floor.
I screamed, covering my ears.
Luca hadn't fired. Marco hadn't fired.
I turned around.
Standing in the doorway, holding a smoking revolver, was a woman with graying hair, wearing a worn winter coat.
“Mom?” I gasped.
Sarah Sullivan lowered the gun. She looked exactly as tired and fierce as she had the night we fled Chicago twenty years ago.
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“He took my husband,” my mother said, her voice shaking but resolute. “He wasn't going to take my daughter.”
TITLE: THE END OF THE VENDETTA
