Chapter 8 - THE WOODWORKER'S JUSTICE
David Bennett stood in the doorway of the DeMarco estate, trembling but resolute. My father. The quiet man who spent his evenings sanding cherry wood and drinking cheap tea. He looked ten years older than he was, his face lined with profound exhaustion and a lifetime of carried guilt.
“Dad,” I cried, running across the marble floor. I threw my arms around him, burying my face in his wet jacket. He smelled of rain, old wood, and gun oil.
He hugged me back with one arm, his other hand keeping the heavy revolver perfectly steady, aimed right at Elena’s chest.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” my father whispered into my hair, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry I lied to you. I thought if I stayed away from them, if I pretended to be nobody, she wouldn’t hurt you.”
Luca didn’t lower his gun from Elena’s chin, but his eyes softened as he looked at my father.
“David,” Luca said, his voice thick with respect. “You came back.”
“I got a call from a friend on the inside,” my dad said, his eyes never leaving Elena. “He said the estate was on lockdown. I knew what she was doing. I wasn’t going to let her hurt my little girl. Not again.”
Elena, still pinned against the banister by Luca’s grip, let out a choked, wet laugh.
“Look at this,” Elena sneered, blood trickling from her lip where she hit the wood. “A family reunion. The mafia prince and his loyal attack dog. You don’t have the stomach to shoot me, David. You ran twelve years ago. You’re a coward.”
“I ran to protect my daughter,” my father said, his voice hardening into a tone I had never heard before. The tone of a man who used to make people disappear for Donato DeMarco. “But my wife is gone. And tonight, I’m done running.”
My father stepped forward, pulling out of my embrace. He walked right up to Luca and Elena.
“Let her go, Luca,” my father said quietly.
Luca frowned, his finger still resting heavily on the trigger. “She killed him, David. She killed my father. She has to pay.”
“She will,” my dad said, his eyes filled with a terrifying, cold certainty. “But if you shoot her in this house, in front of your son, you become exactly what your father was. A killer. Let the families handle her. Give them the ledger.”
Elena scoffed. “The families won’t care about a moldy book!”
“They will,” my dad interrupted smoothly, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small, heavy iron key. “Because the ledger isn’t the only thing Donato left behind. This key opens locker number sixteen. The one your father told everyone was empty.”
Elena’s eyes widened.
“It’s not empty, is it, David?” Luca asked, realizing what my father had done.
“No,” my dad said. “It holds the original, signed deeds to every Moretti property in the city. Your father won them in a card game thirty years ago. He kept them as an insurance policy. If you hand those deeds and the ledger over to the Commission, Elena won’t be a boss. She’ll be a beggar. And the Commission will execute her for treason.”
The absolute terror finally broke through Elena’s arrogant facade. Death she wasn’t afraid of. But losing everything—being stripped of her power, her name, and her wealth—that broke her.
“No,” Elena gasped, thrashing against Luca’s grip. “You can’t do that! It’s my birthright!”
Luca looked at my father. A silent, profound understanding passed between the two men. They were both trying to break the cycle of violence that had ruined their families.
Luca violently shoved Elena away. She collapsed onto the marble stairs, gasping for air, her black dress ruined, looking small and utterly defeated.
“Call the Commission,” Luca ordered over his shoulder. Camille, who was still huddled on the floor, nodded frantically and scrambled toward the study to use the secure landline.
Luca turned his back on his sister and looked at me.
The heavy, dark weight that had hung over him all evening seemed to finally evaporate. He holstered his weapon and walked toward us.
He stopped in front of my father.
Without a word, the most feared man in the city reached out and wrapped his arms around my father in a fierce, deeply emotional embrace.
“Thank you, David,” Luca whispered. “Thank you for protecting me. Thank you for protecting the ledger.”
My dad closed his eyes, tears finally falling down his weathered cheeks. “I’m sorry about your dad, Luca. He was a hard man, but he loved you.”
Luca pulled back, nodding slowly. Then, he turned to me.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tarnished silver bracelet. My mother’s bracelet.
He gently took my hand and clasped the silver vine around my wrist. The cold metal felt like a missing piece of my soul finally snapping back into place.
“It belongs where it’s safe,” Luca said softly, his thumb brushing over the pulse point on my wrist.
The front doors banged open again.
Ethan ran into the foyer, shivering and covered in mud from the boathouse, but alive and safe.
“Dad!” Ethan yelled.
Luca dropped to his knees, catching his son as the boy launched himself into his father’s arms.
I watched them, feeling my father’s warm, calloused hand on my shoulder. The nightmare was over. The lies were exposed.
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As the sound of approaching sirens wailed in the distance—the Commission’s cleaners arriving to take Elena away—Luca looked up from Ethan’s shoulder. His dark eyes locked onto mine across the room.
And for the first time since I had met him, Luca DeMarco truly smiled.
