Chapter 8 - THE CHANDELIER'S FALL
Panic erupted in the ballroom.
Women screamed, diving under tables as the remaining shards of crystal rained down. The bosses of the Commission didn't flinch, but their personal guards immediately drew their weapons, creating a wall of steel around the elder men.
Carlo was breathing heavily, his gun pointed squarely at my chest.
“Give me the chip, you little rat,” Carlo snarled, stepping over the broken glass toward me.
Luca, still kneeling with his hands bound behind his back, didn't hesitate.
He lunged upward, driving his shoulder directly into Carlo’s knees.
Carlo shouted in surprise as his legs buckled. The gun went off, the bullet grazing the fabric of my emerald gown and burying itself into the marble floor.
“Get the chip to Salvatore!” Luca roared, wrestling Carlo to the ground despite his bound hands.
I didn't freeze. I turned and sprinted toward the raised Commission table.
Two of Carlo’s loyal guards stepped into my path, weapons raised.
But before they could fire, the massive oak doors of the ballroom burst open again.
Marco, Luca’s head of security, stormed in, flanked by a dozen heavily armed men loyal to Luca.
“Drop them!” Marco yelled, unleashing a deafening volley into the ceiling.
Carlo’s guards hesitated, suddenly realizing they were vastly outnumbered.
I slid across the marble floor, reaching the edge of the Commission table.
Don Salvatore looked down at me, his weathered face completely unreadable.
I slammed the gold micro-SD card onto the polished wood in front of him.
“Read it,” I demanded, gasping for air.
Salvatore signaled to his consigliere, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses who immediately pulled a sleek laptop from a briefcase. He inserted the chip.
A red prompt flashed on the screen: BIOMETRIC AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.
In the center of the room, Luca had managed to wrap his legs around Carlo’s throat in a vicious chokehold. But Carlo was vicious; he slammed the butt of his pistol into Luca’s ribs, breaking the hold with a sickening crack.
Carlo scrambled to his feet, aiming his gun at Luca’s head.
“ENOUGH!” Salvatore’s voice boomed over the microphone on the table, echoing like thunder.
Every gun in the room lowered. Even Carlo froze.
“Bring the boy to me,” Salvatore ordered.
Marco stepped forward, kicking Carlo’s gun away, and hauled Luca to his feet. He quickly sliced the zip-ties binding Luca’s wrists with a tactical knife.
Luca rubbed his raw wrists and walked toward the table, never taking his eyes off Carlo.
“Scan your thumb, Luca,” Salvatore commanded.
Luca pressed his thumb against the biometric reader on the laptop.
For a torturous second, the screen held on the red prompt.
Then, it flashed vibrant green.
ACCESS GRANTED.
Files began to populate the screen. Audio recordings, bank transfers, scanned documents with Carlo’s unmistakable signature.
Salvatore’s consigliere clicked on the first audio file.
The ballroom fell dead silent as the scratchy, undeniable voice of Carlo Moretti echoed from the laptop speakers.
"The poison worked. Bellini's wife is dead. Pin it on the Irish, and transfer the remaining three million to the offshore account before Anthony checks the books."
Vanessa Bellini collapsed into her chair, her hands covering her face as she sobbed hysterically. The truth she had denied for years was playing out in front of the entire underworld.
Don Salvatore slowly closed the laptop.
He looked at Carlo.
Carlo was trembling, taking slow, deliberate steps backward toward the exit.
“It’s a fake,” Carlo stammered, sweat pouring down his scarred face. “It’s AI! Anthony hated me! He fabricated it!”
Salvatore didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
“Carlo Moretti,” Salvatore said softly. “You broke the sacred laws. You murdered the innocent, you stole from the family, and you tried to kill the rightful heir.”
Salvatore looked at the guards surrounding the room.
“Take him to the basement. He does not see the sunrise.”
Carlo let out a pathetic, terrified scream as four massive guards grabbed him by the arms and dragged him kicking and thrashing out of the ballroom.
The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him, sealing his fate.
The tension in the room instantly evaporated, replaced by a heavy, somber respect.
Salvatore stood up. He looked at Luca, who was bleeding and battered, but standing incredibly tall.
“Your father was a great man, Luca,” Salvatore said, bowing his head slightly. “You have proven yourself worthy of his seat. The Commission recognizes you as the undisputed head of the Moretti family.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the gathered bosses.
Then, Salvatore turned his dark eyes to me.
“And you, Miss Collins,” Salvatore said, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “You have done a great service to this family. Whatever you ask for tonight, it is yours.”
I looked at the powerful men sitting at the table. I looked at the opulence of the room.
“I just want my mother to be safe,” I said quietly. “And I want her to get the surgery she needs.”
Luca stepped beside me, gently wrapping his arm around my waist, supporting my exhausted body.
“It’s already done, Megan,” Luca whispered. “I had Marco transfer her to the best private cardiac hospital in the country an hour ago. She’s safe.”
Tears of pure relief spilled down my cheeks.
I turned and buried my face in Luca’s chest, sobbing softly. He held me tight, burying his face in my hair, ignoring the stares of the hundreds of guests.
For the first time in my life, I felt completely, undeniably safe.
But as I pulled away to wipe my eyes, my gaze caught Vanessa Bellini.
She wasn't crying anymore.
She was standing near the back exit, slipping unnoticed through the shadows.
And clutched tightly in her good hand was the white envelope June had brought to the dinner.
The envelope with the photograph of my mother and Anthony.
Before I could alert Luca, my phone buzzed in the small clutch purse I had borrowed from June.
I pulled it out.
It was a text message from an unknown number.
You won the battle, Megan. But you forgot something at the diner.
My blood ran cold.
Attached to the message was a photo.
May you like
It was a picture of the chipped blue coffee mug, sitting on the counter at Harper’s Diner.
And resting inside the mug was a ticking time bomb.
