Chapter 3 - The Silver Revolver
The crystal chandeliers seemed to dim as the weight of Luca’s words crushed the air out of the dining room.
Twenty years of a carefully constructed lie unraveled in a matter of seconds.
"That's impossible," Vanessa stammered, stepping back so fast her heel caught on the Persian rug. "Luca, your mother’s death was an accident. The police report said the roads were slick—"
"The police report was bought and paid for," Luca interrupted, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that shook the crystal glasses on the table. He slammed the silver revolver onto the polished mahogany. "This gun belonged to your uncle, Antonio Bellini. My mother found it hidden in his car the night she died. She knew he was planning a hit on my father."
Frank let out a ragged, heartbroken sob, collapsing into a nearby chair. I rushed to his side, wrapping an arm around his frail shoulders.
"Margaret," Frank wept, burying his face in his trembling hands. "She told me she had to leave that night to protect us. She wouldn't tell me why. I thought she abandoned me."
Luca walked slowly around the long table. The thirty-six guests—capos, lieutenants, and allies—shrank back as he passed. He stopped directly in front of Vanessa.
"My mother hid this box under the floorboards of the workshop before she left, knowing she was being hunted," Luca said, the lethal calm in his voice terrifying. "She left the note hoping my father would find it if she didn't return. But he never looked under those boards. He just locked the shop and grieved."
"Luca, I didn't know!" Vanessa cried, tears finally spilling down her perfectly contoured cheeks. "I swear to God, I was just a child when she died! I didn't know about the gun until yesterday!"
"You knew yesterday," Luca corrected, leaning in close. "You found the box. You read the note. And instead of bringing it to me, you tried to destroy the workshop and threatened a pregnant woman to keep the truth buried. Why?"
Vanessa’s chest heaved. She looked frantically at the guests, seeking an ally, but everyone looked away. The Bellini name held power, but no one was foolish enough to cross Luca Moretti when he had proof of his mother’s murder.
"Because the peace treaty between our families relies on that lie!" Vanessa shrieked, desperation cracking her facade completely. "If you found out my uncle killed your mother, the truce would shatter! There would be a bloodbath! I was trying to protect our future, Luca. I was protecting you!"
"You were protecting your family's empire," Luca corrected coldly. He turned to Rocco. "Take her to the cellar."
"No! Luca, you can't!" Vanessa screamed as Rocco grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the kitchen doors. "My father will burn this city to the ground if you touch me!"
"Let him try," Luca said, turning his back on her.
As the heavy wooden doors swung shut, cutting off Vanessa’s screams, Luca looked at his remaining guests.
"Dinner is over. Get out."
Within two minutes, the grand dining room was empty, save for Luca, his weeping father, and me.
My legs suddenly felt like lead. The adrenaline that had kept me standing began to fade, replaced by a deep, exhausting ache in my lower back. I gripped the edge of the table, struggling to stay upright.
Luca noticed immediately. The cold, violent mafia boss vanished, replaced by a man who looked suddenly very tired.
He walked over and gently took my elbow, guiding me to a plush chair. "Sit, Emma. You're pale."
"I'm fine," I lied, sinking into the chair with a grateful sigh.
Luca picked up the broken rocking horse from the table. He turned it over in his large, tattooed hands, inspecting the snapped leg.
"You didn't have to stand up to her for my father," Luca said softly, his dark eyes meeting mine. "Vanessa is a dangerous woman to cross. Why did you do it?"
"Because your father is a good man," I said simply, looking at Frank, who was now quietly wiping his tears with a handkerchief. "And nobody should be treated like a burden in their own home."
Luca’s jaw tightened. "I didn't know she was treating him like that. I've been so focused on managing the syndicate, I let her handle the household. It was a mistake."
"It's not your fault, Luca," Frank said, his voice raspy but surprisingly steady. He looked at his son with a profound sadness. "You were protecting the family the only way you knew how."
Luca set the rocking horse down and pulled a thick wad of cash from his jacket pocket. He held it out to me.
"This is for the trouble tonight, Emma. Take a week off. Rest."
I stared at the money, then pushed his hand away. "I don't want your money, Mr. Moretti. I just want my job. And I want your father to be allowed back in his workshop."
Luca looked at me, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features. He slowly put the money back in his pocket.
"The workshop is his," Luca promised. "And you have a job here for as long as you want it."
I managed a tired smile. "Thank you."
"But there's a problem, Luca," Frank interrupted, his voice dropping to a fearful whisper. He was staring at the silver revolver on the table. "Antonio Bellini didn't act alone twenty years ago."
Luca turned sharply to his father. "What do you mean?"
Frank gripped his cane, his knuckles turning white. "Margaret’s note. Read the back of it."
Luca snatched the faded paper from the table and flipped it over. I watched his eyes scan the back of the page, and the color that had just begun to return to his face vanished completely.
"What does it say?" I asked, a new wave of dread washing over me.
May you like
Luca looked up, his eyes wide with a terrifying realization.
"It says the man who helped Antonio ambush her... the man who cut her brake lines... was my uncle. My father's own brother."
