Chapter 5 - THE HOLLOW WOODEN JOINT
Luca knelt beside me on the library floor.
He stared at the broken edge of the doorframe.
“Hollow?” he repeated.
“My father is a carpenter,” I explained, tracing the edge of the splintered wood. “He taught me how to read the grain. This isn't a solid beam. It’s two pieces of oak, milled out in the center and glued perfectly together to look like one solid piece.”
Teresa stood up from her chair, walking slowly toward us.
“Antonio had this doorframe moved from the old house twenty years ago,” she murmured. “He hired a private carpenter to do it. He wouldn't let any of Arthur’s men near it.”
I looked at the pencil marks. The little lines charting Michael’s growth, and later, Luca’s.
“Arthur didn't want the wood destroyed because he hated the pencil marks,” I realized, the pieces clicking together in my mind. “He wanted it destroyed because he knew something was hidden inside.”
Luca didn't wait.
He grabbed the heavy brass letter opener from his desk.
He wedged the flat blade into the crack I had found.
With a sharp, violent twist of his wrist, Luca pried the wood apart.
The glue, decades old, snapped with a loud crack. The front panel of the doorframe lifted away, revealing a dark, dusty cavity running straight down the center.
Inside the hollow space was a thick, oilcloth bundle, tied with heavy twine.
Luca reached in and pulled it out.
It was heavy.
He set it on the mahogany desk and pulled the knot loose.
The oilcloth fell open.
Inside were three things.
A stack of letters tied with a ribbon.
A tarnished silver pocket watch.
And a child’s drawing.
Teresa let out a sharp gasp, picking up the silver pocket watch.
“This was Michael’s,” she wept, holding the cold metal to her cheek. “We gave it to him for his fourth birthday. The day before he was taken.”
Luca carefully untied the stack of letters.
He opened the top one. The paper was crisp, the ink a faded blue.
“It’s from Michael,” Luca whispered.
The room fell completely silent.
Luca began to read aloud.
“Dad. If you are reading this, it means Arthur finally made his move, and you had to break the wood. I am so sorry I couldn't be the son you wanted. I am so sorry I had to pretend to hate you.”
Luca stopped. His brow furrowed in confusion.
“Pretend to hate him?” Luca read on.
“Arthur didn't keep me locked in a basement, Dad. He raised me. He told me that you sold me to him to pay a gambling debt. He poisoned me against you. For twenty years, I worked as Arthur’s enforcer, believing my own father threw me away.”
Teresa collapsed into the desk chair, sobbing uncontrollably.
Arthur hadn't just kidnapped Michael. He had brainwashed him. He had turned Antonio’s own son into a weapon against the Moretti family.
Luca’s voice shook with rage as he read the next paragraph.
“But two years ago, I found the ledger in Arthur’s safe. I found the proof that you had been paying him millions to keep me alive. I realized the truth. But I couldn't escape. Arthur knows I found out. He poisoned my food, Dad. My heart is failing. The doctors say I have weeks left.”
Luca lowered the letter.
Arthur hadn't just watched Michael die of a random illness. He had murdered him slowly when Michael discovered the truth.
“Keep reading,” Teresa begged, her voice ragged. “Please, Luca. Is there more?”
Luca turned the page.
“I don't care about my life anymore, Dad. But I care about Leo. Arthur is going to use Leo to control Luca next. You have to stop him.”
Luca stopped reading.
He looked at his mother. Then at me.
“Who is Leo?” Luca asked.
I reached into the oilcloth bundle and picked up the child’s drawing.
It was drawn in bright, messy crayons.
A picture of a little boy holding hands with a tall man.
In the corner, written in clumsy, blocky letters, was a name.
LEO — AGE 6.
“Michael had a son,” I whispered, looking at the drawing. “Leo is your nephew.”
Luca stared at the crayon drawing, the realization hitting him like a physical blow.
He wasn't just fighting for the memory of a dead brother anymore. He was fighting for a living child. A child who was currently in the hands of the man who had murdered his father.
“Where is he?” Luca demanded, grabbing the remaining letters. “Does he say where Arthur is keeping him?”
He frantically flipped through the pages, but there were no addresses. No locations. Just warnings to protect the boy.
“He doesn't say,” Luca cursed, throwing the letters down. “Arthur could have him anywhere in the country!”
I looked at the child’s drawing again.
My eyes traced the messy lines of the house in the background.
It wasn't a generic square with a triangle roof.
The child had drawn a very specific, very strange detail on top of the house.
A tall, crooked tower with a giant clock face that only had one hand.
I felt a cold chill run down my spine.
I knew that house.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, my voice trembling.
Luca turned to me.
“This drawing,” I pointed to the clock tower. “I know where this is.”
Luca grabbed my shoulders. “Where?”
“It’s an abandoned estate on the South Side,” I explained, my heart hammering. “Near my father’s neighborhood. The locals call it the One-Armed Clock. Arthur Bellini bought the property ten years ago, but nobody ever lives there.”
Luca’s eyes darkened with a terrifying, absolute fury.
May you like
He turned to Daniel.
“Get the cars,” Luca ordered. “We’re bringing my nephew home.”
