The Lighter In The Driveway

Daniel did not move from the door.

Roman’s gaze remained fixed on Bianca.

Thirty-four guests held their breath. The silence in the dining room was so absolute I could hear the faint hum of the chandelier bulbs above us.

“Roman,” Bianca whispered.

Her voice shook. Not the calculated, elegant tone she had used to accuse Elias ten minutes ago. This was raw.

This was fear.

“Daniel,” Roman said softly. “Bring the driver inside.”

“Roman, please!” Bianca stepped forward, her hands raised. “You don’t understand. Nicholas just needed to hold them. For security.”

“For security.” Roman repeated the words as if tasting them.

“My father’s private cases. Kept hidden for twenty-seven years. He needed to hold them for security.”

“Yes.”

“Without asking me.”

She swallowed hard. “He wanted to surprise you. To appraise them for the wedding.”

It was a stupid lie. Even I knew that. You don’t load six cases of a mafia boss’s secret inventory into a van through the service entrance to plan a wedding surprise.

Daniel spoke into his earpiece. A moment later, the heavy oak doors opened. Two of Roman’s security men walked in.

They weren’t holding a driver.

They were holding a heavy, dark canvas bag.

“Sir,” one of the guards said. “The van is empty.”

Bianca gasped.

Roman didn’t blink. “Empty.”

“Yes, sir. The driver says he dropped the six cases at a warehouse in Southside three hours ago. He was told to come back here and wait for Mrs. Rinaldi’s signal to pick up the wine.”

Bianca backed away, shaking her head. “No. No, Nicholas promised he wouldn’t move them until tomorrow.”

“Nicholas lied to you,” Roman said coldly.

He looked at the canvas bag. “What is that?”

The guard unzipped it. “The driver’s personal effects. And we found something on the ground near the service gate. Where the van was parked yesterday.”

The guard reached into his pocket and placed an object on the pristine white tablecloth.

It was a gold lighter.

Heavy. Scratched. Old.

Roman stared at it. His expression, usually unreadable, shifted into something dangerous.

Elias let out a sharp breath. “Is that—”

“Yes,” Roman said.

He picked up the lighter. “My uncle Enzo’s. The one that went missing the night he was murdered.”

A collective murmur ripped through the guests. Bianca’s face drained of all color.

“Nicholas didn’t orchestrate this,” Roman said quietly, his eyes locking onto his fiancée. “Nicholas isn’t smart enough. Who gave your brother this van?”

“I don’t know!” Bianca cried.

Roman turned the lighter over. “There’s an engraving.”

He looked at Elias. Then, slowly, his dark eyes shifted down the table.

They landed on me.

“Megan.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “Yes, Mr. DeLuca?”

“What was your father’s name again?”

“Patrick Cole.”

Roman slid the heavy gold lighter across the tablecloth. It stopped inches from my hands.

“Read the engraving.”

My fingers trembled as I picked it up. The metal was cold. I turned it over.

There, etched into the gold, were three words: