The Signature in Blue Ink

My heart stopped.

Julia’s red scarf lay on the sunroom floor like a pool of blood.

“Where is my daughter?” Luca’s voice was a terrifying, absolute calm. It was the voice of a man who had already accepted that someone was going to die today.

“She’s safe,” Marco said, walking slowly into the room. His three armed men spread out, blocking the exits. “For now. My men caught her trying to sneak into the garage with a rather interesting red ledger.”

Marco pulled the red leather book from his jacket and tossed it onto the breakfast tray.

“Did you really think Anna’s little diary was going to save you?” Marco laughed. “I knew she was digging into my accounts. That’s why I had to put her to sleep. She was too smart for her own good. Just like you, Luca.”

He pointed at the power of attorney document.

“Sign it. Or Julia doesn’t come out of the cellar.”

Luca stared at the paper.

He didn’t look at me. He didn’t look at the syringe hidden in my pocket.

“If I sign this,” Luca said smoothly, “you control the money. You control the captains. But you’ll always know I’m alive. You’ll never sleep, Marco.”

“Oh, you misunderstand,” Marco said, his eyes gleaming with malice. “You’re not going to survive the afternoon, brother. Dr. Harris’s files say you’re a severe fall risk. Such a tragedy when you stumble down the main staircase and break your neck. But at least the paperwork will be in order.”

Marco tapped the gold fountain pen against the table.

“Sign.”

Luca slowly reached for the pen.

I moved.

“Mr. Moretti, wait!” I shouted, stepping between Luca and the table, playing the panicked nurse. “His heart rate is spiking! If he doesn’t sit down, he’s going to faint!”

I grabbed Marco’s arm, pretending to push him out of the way to reach Luca.

As my hand brushed Marco’s tailored jacket, I slipped the syringe from my pocket.

My thumb rested on the plunger.

All I needed was one second. One clean press through the fabric into his thigh.

But Marco was a predator.

He felt the shift in my weight.

With a backhand swing, Marco struck me across the face.

The force threw me to the floor. The syringe skittered across the polished marble, landing near the fireplace.

“Stupid bitch,” Marco spat, pulling a suppressed pistol from his waistband and pointing it directly at my chest. “You think I don’t know a chemical assassination when I see one?”

Luca lunged, but the three guards instantly drew their weapons, aiming at Luca’s head.

“Ah-ah,” Marco clicked his tongue. “Sit down, Luca. Or the nurse dies before you do.”

Luca froze. He looked at me on the floor, a trickle of blood running from my lip.

He slowly sank back into the wheelchair.

“Good boy,” Marco smiled. He pressed the barrel of his gun against my temple. “Now sign the paper, or I paint the floor with her.”

Luca picked up the gold pen.

He pressed the nib to the paper.

He signed his name in smooth, bold blue ink.

Marco grinned. He snatched the paper from the tray, examining the signature.

“Perfect. You always had beautiful handwriting, brother.”

Marco turned his back on Luca, waving a hand to his guards.

“Take him to the stairs. Make it look like an accident. I’ll deal with the nurse.”

The guards stepped forward.

“Marco,” Luca said.

Marco paused, looking back over his shoulder.

“Do you remember what Anna gave you for your fortieth birthday?” Luca asked.

Marco frowned. “What does it matter?”

“She gave you that antique grandfather clock in your office,” Luca said. He pointed to the corner of the sunroom, where an identical, towering mahogany clock ticked softly. “She bought a matched pair. One for me. One for you.”

Marco looked at the clock. “So?”

“Anna didn’t trust you,” Luca said softly. “She knew you were stealing. So when she bought those clocks, she had the glass faces customized.”

Marco’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“The XII at the top of the dial,” Luca said.

Marco squinted at the clock in the corner. Hidden perfectly within the Roman numeral XII was a tiny, microscopic black lens.

“It’s a camera, Marco. Hardwired to a secure server offshore. It records audio and video, twenty-four hours a day.”

Marco went completely still.

“You just stood in front of a live feed,” Luca said, his voice ringing with absolute triumph, “and confessed to murdering my father, poisoning my wife, and threatening to kill my daughter.”

Marco stared at the clock, his face turning pale.

“And the best part?” Luca smiled. “The feed isn’t just recording. It’s broadcasting. To the phones of all twelve captains on the board.”