Chapter 10 - THE KEYS TO A NEW KINGDOM
The sudden shift in Luca’s demeanor sent a familiar, terrifying jolt of adrenaline through my chest.
“What is it?” I asked, setting my wineglass down on the linen tablecloth.
Luca stood up from the table, his jaw set in a hard line. He looked at Isabella, who was chatting happily with Sam across the table, completely unaware.
“Keep everyone in this room, Marcus,” Luca ordered quietly.
He turned to me. “Emily, come with me to the study.”
I followed him down the long hallway, the silence of the massive house suddenly feeling oppressive again. The ghost of the mafia still lingered in the shadows.
Luca shut the heavy oak doors of the study and locked them.
“Did Vanessa come back?” I asked, my heart hammering.
“No. The Commission banished Vanessa to a convent in Sicily. She’ll never set foot in America again,” Luca said, walking over to his mahogany desk. “This isn't about the Bellinis.”
He picked up a small, unmarked manila envelope that Marcus had placed on his desk.
“Marcus intercepted this in the estate’s outgoing mail room this afternoon,” Luca explained. “It was addressed to the FBI field office in Chicago. It’s stamped with my father’s personal wax seal.”
My eyes widened. “Your father’s seal? But he’s been dead for sixteen years. Who could have sent it?”
“Only one person had access to his desk after he died,” Luca said grimly. “Frank.”
“But Frank is dead,” I argued. “The Commission executed him in the warehouse.”
“Frank knew the Commission might turn on him,” Luca said, tearing the envelope open. “He set a dead-man’s switch. If he didn't check in with his loyalists, they were instructed to mail this package.”
Luca pulled a thick stack of documents from the envelope. He spread them across the desk.
I leaned in to look. They were property deeds, wire transfer logs, and birth records.
“These are the records of the legitimate accounts,” I said, confused. “The ones my mother hid. Why would Frank send them to the FBI?”
“Because he didn't just send the legitimate records,” Luca said, pointing to a highlighted section on a bank ledger.
I read the highlighted text. It was a transfer of ten million dollars, sent from the Moretti legitimate trust fund to a shell corporation tied to a known human trafficking ring in Eastern Europe.
“My father didn't make this transfer,” Luca said, his voice laced with pure disgust. “Frank did. Ten years ago, Frank accessed the legitimate accounts using a forged signature. He used the clean money to fund atrocities. And he framed your mother for it.”
The breath left my lungs.
“If the FBI sees this,” I whispered in horror, “they’ll freeze the entire fortune. They’ll seize the estate. They’ll arrest me as an accomplice because my name is on the accounts.”
“Frank wanted to make sure that if he couldn't have the empire, nobody could,” Luca said, slamming his fist onto the desk.
“How do we prove my mother didn't sign it?” I asked desperately. “She’s gone.”
Luca stared at the documents, his brilliant, strategic mind working at terrifying speeds.
“The forged signature is a perfect replica of Margaret’s handwriting,” Luca noted, tracing the ink. “Frank hired a professional forger. The best in the city.”
“Who?”
“A man named Silas Thorne,” Luca said. “He operates out of an old antique shop in the South Loop. If we can get Silas to confess on tape that Frank hired him to forge the signature, the FBI will drop the investigation.”
“Then let’s go get him,” I said, determination replacing my fear. I wasn't going to let my mother’s name be dragged through the mud by a dead coward.
Luca looked at me, a proud smile breaking through his anger.
“You really are a Moretti,” he chuckled softly.
We left the estate immediately, taking the matte-black SUV. The drive into the city was tense. The South Loop was a rough district, far removed from the polished marble of our new life.
We parked in a dark alley behind a dusty, unmarked storefront. The windows were barred, filled with broken clocks and tarnished silver.
Luca checked his sidearm, slipping it into his jacket. “Silas is paranoid. He doesn't like visitors. Let me do the talking.”
We approached the heavy steel back door. Luca knocked three times in a rapid, specific rhythm.
A small viewing grate slid open. A pair of terrified, bloodshot eyes peeked out.
“We’re closed,” a raspy voice hissed.
“Open the door, Silas,” Luca commanded, his voice low and dangerous. “Or I take the hinges off with C4.”
The deadbolt clicked. The heavy door swung open.
Silas Thorne was a thin, frail man in his sixties, his fingers stained black with ink. He backed away as we entered, trembling violently.
“Luca Moretti,” Silas stammered. “I swear, I haven't done any work for the families in five years! I’m retired!”
“I’m not here about new work, Silas,” Luca said, stepping into the dimly lit shop. “I’m here about a job you did for Frank ten years ago.”
Luca threw the forged bank ledger onto Silas’s work desk.
Silas looked at the document. He went completely pale.
“I didn't know what it was for!” Silas pleaded, raising his hands defensively. “Frank brought me a sample of the woman’s handwriting and told me to copy it. He paid me fifty grand to keep my mouth shut!”
“I need you to say that into a recorder,” Luca said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “And I need the original sample Frank gave you to prove the forgery.”
Silas swallowed hard. “I can't.”
“Why not?” I asked, stepping forward.
Silas looked at me, his eyes wide with fear.
“Because Frank didn't bring me a piece of paper to copy,” Silas whispered.
“Then what did he bring you?” Luca demanded.
Silas pointed a trembling, ink-stained finger toward a locked iron safe in the corner of the room.
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“He brought me her journal,” Silas said. “The diary Margaret Carter kept the year before she died. And if you read what she wrote inside it... you’ll wish you never found it.”
TITLE: THE PHOTOGRAPH OF THE FUTURE
