Chapter 8 - THE BODY IN THE BAY
The words hung in the sterile, quiet air of the penthouse like a death sentence.
A body.
“What do you mean, a body?” I stammered, stepping away from the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Arthur didn't drown. You shot him on the access road. I was there.”
Luca’s jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked near his ear. He looked down at the phone in his hand, then back up at me.
“It wasn't Arthur,” Luca said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. “The dive team pulled a woman from the water near the pylons of the boathouse. She’d been shot twice in the chest.”
My stomach plummeted into my shoes. “Who?”
Luca took a slow, deep breath, struggling to maintain his composure.
“Vanessa.”
The name hit the room like a physical blow. Vanessa Bellini. The woman who had humiliated my son, blackmailed the Moretti family, and fled the estate in a fury just hours earlier.
She was dead. Floating in the water exactly where I had thrown the ledger.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered, my mind racing to process the timeline. “She left the mansion before the police arrived. She was on the phone with her father in the foyer. Why would she go to the boathouse?”
“Because she knew Arthur kept a private speedboat there,” Luca said grimly, pacing the floor. “When she realized I was canceling the wedding, she knew her father’s power play had failed. She panicked. She went to the boathouse to steal the boat and flee the city before Arthur’s empire collapsed.”
“But who shot her?” I asked, shivering despite the warmth of the penthouse.
Luca stopped pacing. He looked at me, his dark eyes filled with a terrifying realization.
“Think about it, Sarah,” Luca said quietly. “Who else was in the boathouse tonight?”
My blood ran cold.
Michael.
Michael Moretti had been waiting in the speedboat to intercept the ledger from me. He was desperate. He believed Arthur was his only ticket out of the country.
“No,” I gasped, covering my mouth with my hands. “No, Michael wouldn't kill her. He couldn't even shoot me when I was standing right in front of him! He dropped the gun when Benjamin stepped forward!”
“Michael is a coward,” Luca agreed, his voice hardening. “But cowards do desperate things when they’re backed into a corner. If Vanessa surprised him in the boathouse, demanded the boat, threatened to ruin him… he might have pulled the trigger in a panic.”
“But Arthur was there!” I argued frantically, desperate to make sense of the nightmare. “Arthur showed up right after Michael drove away! Maybe Arthur shot his own daughter?”
“Arthur loved Vanessa more than he loved power,” Luca shook his head. “He wouldn't have killed her. And my men just interrogated Arthur at the hospital before his surgery. He didn't know Vanessa was dead. He genuinely thought she had boarded a flight to Paris.”
I sank onto the edge of the velvet sofa, my knees finally giving out.
“If Michael killed her,” I whispered, “and he fled on that boat… he’s a murderer on the run.”
Luca walked over to a heavy mahogany cabinet against the far wall. He opened a hidden compartment and pulled out a sleek, satellite phone.
“I sent Michael to the private airstrip hours ago, before the police breached the house,” Luca said, dialing a secure number. “I told him to fly to the safe house in Sicily. If he made it onto that plane, he’s in international airspace by now.”
He held the phone to his ear, listening to the ringing.
I watched him, praying Michael had escaped. If Michael was caught for Vanessa’s murder, Arthur’s remaining loyalists would tear the city apart seeking revenge, and the fragile peace Luca had just secured would burn to ash.
The line connected.
“Captain,” Luca said sharply into the phone. “Did my brother board the Gulfstream?”
A long, agonizing pause.
Luca’s expression darkened. “Are you certain?”
He hung up the phone slowly, setting it down on the glass table.
“He never showed up,” Luca said, looking at me. “The pilot has been waiting at the airstrip for three hours. Michael isn't on the plane.”
“Then where is he?” I asked, panic rising in my chest again.
“He took the boat,” Luca reasoned, rubbing his temples. “He couldn't risk the airstrip if he thought the police were already looking for him. He must have docked the boat somewhere along the shoreline and gone into hiding.”
Luca turned toward the massive windows, looking out over the sprawling, twinkling lights of Chicago.
“He’s out there,” Luca muttered, mostly to himself. “A panicked, grieving man who just murdered his fiancée’s daughter. He’s going to make a mistake. And when he does, Arthur’s men will find him before the police do.”
“We have to find him first,” I said, standing up.
Luca looked at me in surprise. “We?”
“Yes, we,” I insisted, walking over to stand beside him. “He let me go tonight, Luca. He had a gun pointed at my chest, and he lowered it because he couldn't bear to hurt a child. He isn't a cold-blooded killer. He needs help.”
“Sarah, this isn't your fight,” Luca sighed, exhaustion weighing heavily on his broad shoulders. “You’ve already risked too much for my family tonight. I want you to stay here with Benjamin and my mother. Keep the doors locked. Do not answer the phone.”
He walked toward the front door of the penthouse, grabbing his dark wool overcoat from the rack.
“Where are you going?” I asked, following him.
“I’m going to find my brother,” Luca said, checking the magazine in his handgun before slipping it into his shoulder holster. “Before he gets himself killed.”
“How? Chicago is massive. He could be anywhere.”
Luca paused, his hand resting on the brass doorknob. He looked back at me, a flicker of the old, calculated mafia boss returning to his eyes.
“Michael is a creature of habit, Sarah. He’s terrified, and he needs cash to disappear. His bank accounts will be frozen by morning. There is only one place in this city where he keeps unregistered, untraceable cash.”
“Where?”
“The underground casino beneath the old meatpacking plant on Halsted Street,” Luca said grimly. “He runs the books there for the family. He has a private safe in the back office. He’ll go there to clean it out before he leaves the city.”
Luca opened the door.
“Lock this behind me,” he ordered gently.
“Bring him back alive, Luca,” I pleaded.
He gave a curt nod and disappeared into the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
I immediately threw the deadbolt and engaged the security chain.
The penthouse was eerily silent again. The adrenaline of the night was completely gone, leaving only a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. I walked back into the guest bedroom to check on Benjamin.
He was still sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling in a steady, peaceful rhythm. His little face looked so innocent, so completely unaware of the violent world that was crashing down around us.
I sat on the edge of the bed, gently brushing a lock of dark hair from his forehead.
“I’m so proud of you, baby,” I whispered softly. “You were so brave today.”
I leaned down and kissed his cheek.
As I pulled back, my eye caught something strange.
Sitting on the bedside table, right next to the lamp, was the little wooden baseball bat Benjamin had bought with his allowance last summer at a Cubs game. He carried it everywhere, using it to playfully hit rolled-up socks in the living room.
But it wasn't the bat that caught my attention.
It was the piece of paper tucked underneath it.
I frowned, reaching out and pulling the paper free. It was a crisp, white sheet of expensive hotel stationery, folded neatly in half.
I opened it.
The handwriting was jagged, frantic, written in dark blue ink.
Sarah,
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn't mean to do it. The gun went off. I panicked.
I couldn't leave the city knowing what I did. I had to make it right.
I know about the bank statement Luca gave Ben. I know Luca promised to take care of you both. That’s all I ever wanted.
Tell Luca I’m sorry I was a coward. Tell him I’m finally doing something brave.
I love you, brother.
— Michael
My heart completely stopped.
I read the letter again, the words blurring as tears filled my eyes.
This wasn't a confession.
It was a suicide note.
And it wasn't written to Luca. It was left for me to find.
Which meant Michael hadn't fled on the boat. He hadn't gone to the casino to get cash.
I spun around, looking frantically around the guest bedroom, then out into the dark, silent living room of the penthouse.
Michael was in the penthouse.
He had beaten us here. He had used his key to get inside before we arrived, written the note, and hidden himself away to end his life.
“Michael!” I screamed, dropping the note and sprinting out of the bedroom.
I checked the kitchen. Empty.
I checked the master suite. Empty.
I ran down the long hallway toward the back of the penthouse, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. There was only one room left.
The private balcony.
I reached the glass doors at the end of the hall.
Through the sheer curtains, I saw a silhouette standing on the edge of the balcony railing, forty stories above the dark, unforgiving concrete of the Chicago streets.
“Michael, no!” I screamed, throwing the glass doors open and rushing out into the freezing night air.
Michael Moretti stood on the ledge, his back to the city, tears streaming down his face, holding a gun directly to his own temple.
And as I burst through the doors, he closed his eyes and whispered,
May you like
“Tell Luca I’m sorry.”
His finger tightened on the trigger.
