Chapter 6 - The Voice From the Grave
Luca stared at the microcassette resting in the palm of his hand.
It was obsolete technology.
The kind of recording device businessmen used twenty years ago.
"Daniel," Luca said, not taking his eyes off the tape. "Find a player. Now."
"I have one in the security office archives," Daniel said, already moving toward the door. "Give me three minutes."
Luca turned his attention back to Leo.
The boy was yawning, his exhaustion finally overpowering his fear.
"Rachel," Luca said gently. "Take him to my private suite. Lock the door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me or Daniel."
"Yes, sir."
I gently lifted Leo into my arms. He was painfully light. He immediately rested his head on my shoulder, his small hands clutching the collar of my shirt.
As I carried him up the grand staircase, I could feel the weight of what was happening.
Vanessa—Clara—was sleeping in the guest house, oblivious that her entire house of cards was collapsing.
She thought she had the ultimate leverage.
She didn't know the boy was safe.
I brought Leo into Luca's massive bedroom, laid him on the king-sized bed, and pulled the heavy duvet over him.
He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
I locked the heavy oak door and sat in the armchair by the window, watching the moonlight filter through the trees.
Fifteen minutes later, there was a heavy knock.
"Rachel. It's Luca."
I rushed to unlock it.
Luca stepped inside, followed by Daniel.
Luca was holding a bulky, old-fashioned dictaphone player.
His face was completely unreadable. It scared me.
He walked over to the bed, checked on the sleeping boy, and then gestured for us to move to the far corner of the room, near the fireplace, to keep the noise down.
"Play it," Luca ordered.
Daniel pressed the button.
There was a hiss of static.
Then, a voice filled the room.
“Clara, put the gun down.”
I gasped.
It was Antonio.
His voice was deeper than Luca's, but the cadence was exactly the same.
“Don't tell me what to do, Antonio!” Vanessa's voice shrieked. It was younger, more unhinged, lacking the polished restraint she had now. “You humiliated me! You threw me aside for a waitress!”
“I never loved you, Clara. The engagement was a business arrangement. You knew that. Now put the gun down and step off the boat.”
There was the sound of wind whipping against a microphone, and the sloshing of water against a hull.
“She’s dead, Antonio,” Clara sneered. “I made sure of it. The hospital told me she bled out an hour ago. And the bastard child is already gone.”
A choked, agonizing sob tore from Antonio's throat.
It was the sound of a man breaking in half.
“You killed her?” he roared.
“I protected what belongs to me!” Clara screamed. “The Moretti empire is mine!”
“You will never touch my family,” Antonio growled. “I have everything recorded. Every threat. Every bribe. The moment we dock, you are going to prison.”
There was a loud scuffle.
The sound of metal hitting wood.
A sharp, deafening CRACK.
Then, a splash.
Silence stretched on the tape, broken only by the sound of the waves.
Then, heavy footsteps approached the microphone.
“Is it done?” a new voice asked.
My blood ran cold.
It wasn't Clara's voice.
It was a man's voice. Older. Gruff.
Clara answered, out of breath. “He’s in the water. He hit his head on the gunwale. He won't come up.”
“Good,” the man said. “Find the tape recorder. He said he had one.”
“I don't see it. It must have gone overboard with him.”
“Leave it. Start the engine. We need to make it look like he hit the reef.”
The tape clicked off.
Daniel stared at the machine in horror.
Luca was gripping the mantelpiece so hard the wood was groaning under the pressure.
"Boss," Daniel whispered. "That second voice..."
Luca slowly turned his head.
His eyes were hollow, burning pits of rage.
"It was Uncle Salvatore," Luca said.
Salvatore Moretti.
Luca's father's brother.
The man who had consoled Luca at the funeral. The man who had run the family business until Luca was old enough to take over.
The man who was currently sleeping in the East Wing guest room, having flown in from New York for the engagement dinner.
"They planned it together," Luca whispered. "Salvatore wanted the business. Clara wanted the money. They killed my brother."
He pushed off the mantelpiece and walked toward the bedroom door.
"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice trembling.
Luca stopped. He didn't look back.
May you like
"To wake up my uncle."
TITLE: The Traitor in the East Wing
