Chapter 12 - The Shadow At The Door
I dropped the ticket like it was on fire.
Run, Emma.
The handwriting wasn't Antonio’s elegant script.
It wasn't Carlo’s shaky scrawl.
It was perfectly neat.
Almost mechanical.
Someone else knew about the suit.
Someone else knew I would be the one to find the ticket.
I backed away from the desk, my heart hammering in my throat.
The entire narrative we had just uncovered—Vanessa’s betrayal, Carlo’s sacrifice, Luca’s mother being alive—it was all perfectly orchestrated.
Too perfect.
I rushed out of the blue room and ran to the balcony.
Down in the grand hall, the cleanup crew was gone.
The floor was spotless.
The broken front doors had been temporarily boarded up.
But Luca was nowhere to be seen.
“Luca?” I called out, my voice echoing in the vast, empty space.
No answer.
Panic gripped my chest.
I ran down the grand staircase, my shoes slipping on a stray piece of chandelier glass.
I checked the dining room.
Empty.
I checked the kitchen.
Empty.
The house was completely dead.
I pulled out my phone to call him.
No signal.
The Wi-Fi was cut, and the cell service was jammed.
I was entirely alone in a massive, locked-down fortress.
Suddenly, a soft knock echoed from the heavy mahogany door of Antonio’s private study at the end of the hall.
Knock. Knock.
I froze.
The door was slightly ajar.
A sliver of golden light spilled out onto the marble floor.
I walked toward it, my hands shaking.
I pushed the door open.
Sitting in Antonio’s leather armchair, his back turned to me, was a man.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit.
He was holding a glass of scotch.
“Luca?” I whispered.
The man didn't move.
“Luciano is outside,” the man said.
His voice was deep, smooth, and chillingly familiar.
It was the same voice I had heard on the tape recordings Luca played every year on the anniversary of his father’s death.
The man slowly turned the chair around to face me.
He was older, his hair completely silver, a jagged scar running down the side of his neck.
But there was no mistaking the cold, piercing brown eyes.
Antonio Moretti smiled at me.
“Hello, Emma.”
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't breathe.
“You’re dead,” I choked out. “You died thirteen years ago.”
“I had to die,” Antonio said, taking a slow sip of his scotch. “So I could see who would betray my son.”
He stood up, walking toward me with absolute authority.
“Vanessa failed the test. Carlo failed the test.”
He stopped right in front of me.
“But you, Emma. You passed.”
May you like
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the old black button with the silver M.
“Pack your bags, Emma,” the ghost of the mafia boss said quietly. “Your train leaves tomorrow. And we have a lot of work to do.”
