Chapter 8 - THE BLOOD ON THE MARBLE
Michael’s breath smelled of copper and fear.
His arm was wrapped tightly around my chest, pinning my arms, while the cold steel of a hunting knife rested flat against my throat.
“Don’t make a sound, Hannah,” he hissed, his voice trembling.
I froze, terrified. The yellow slip of paper was crushed inside my clenched fist.
From down the hall, another gunshot rang out, followed by the sound of heavy furniture crashing to the floor.
“Did you hear that?” Michael whispered, a sick smile in his voice. “Uncle Vincent is cleaning house. Luca’s done. Dad’s done. It’s finally over.”
“You’re a coward,” I choked out, my voice raspy against the pressure of the blade.
Michael yanked my hair harder.
“Shut up! Give me the paper you just pulled out of that box. The account numbers.”
“I don’t have them,” I lied.
“I saw you grab it through the window, you stupid girl!” Michael snarled. He pressed the edge of the knife just enough to break the skin on my neck. A warm bead of blood trickled down my collarbone. “Open your hand.”
I couldn’t let him have it. If Michael got the money, Teresa would be thrown on the street. Luca’s legacy would be completely erased by the men who killed him.
I thought about my mother, lying in a hospital bed, her surgery paid for by a man who had only known the truth for an hour.
Luca had protected me.
I wasn't going to let his brother destroy his family.
I slammed my heel backward, directly into Michael’s knee.
He howled in pain, his grip loosening just enough for me to twist away.
I shoved him hard into the dining table. He slipped on the puddle of spilled wine and crashed into a heavy mahogany chair.
I didn’t wait.
I sprinted toward the double doors, bursting into the dark hallway.
“Luca!” I screamed as loud as my lungs would allow.
I ran toward the study.
The heavy doors were blown wide open.
Inside, the moonlight cut through the rain-streaked windows, revealing a scene of absolute chaos.
The bookshelves were destroyed. The desk was flipped.
And standing in the center of the room, breathing heavily, was Luca.
He was bleeding from a cut above his eye, his white dress shirt torn at the shoulder.
On the floor at his feet, groaning in pain and clutching a shattered kneecap, was Uncle Vincent.
Luca snapped his head toward me.
“Hannah! Are you hurt?”
He saw the blood on my neck. His eyes went dark.
“Michael,” I gasped, holding up the crumpled yellow paper. “He’s in the dining room! He tried to take it!”
Luca didn’t hesitate.
He stepped over Vincent, grabbed my hand, and pulled me behind him as we moved fast down the hallway toward the parlor.
“Mom!” Luca yelled.
We burst into the parlor.
Teresa was sitting perfectly upright in her armchair, completely unharmed.
Two of Vincent’s men were lying unconscious on the floor, courtesy of Marcus, Luca’s head of security, who was standing over them wiping his knuckles.
“Took you long enough, boss,” Marcus grunted.
“Secure the perimeter,” Luca ordered. “Where’s Michael?”
“Right here,” a voice called out from the entryway.
Michael stood in the doorway, holding the hunting knife. He was limping badly, his suit covered in wine and dirt. He looked pathetic. Cornered.
He pointed the knife at Luca.
“You think you won?” Michael yelled, his voice cracking. “Vincent owns the captains! They’ll be here in ten minutes! You’re outgunned, Luca!”
Luca walked slowly toward his brother.
He didn’t raise his gun. He just looked at him with absolute pity.
“You really are an idiot, Michael,” Luca said softly.
Michael swung the knife.
Luca dodged it effortlessly, grabbed Michael’s wrist, and twisted it sharply. The knife clattered to the floor.
Luca pushed him hard against the wall, pinning him by the throat, just like he had in the dining room.
But this time, there was no anger in Luca’s eyes. Only finality.
“You killed him,” Luca whispered.
Michael stopped struggling.
“What?”
“Dad. You and Vanessa were there the night he died. He didn’t have a heart attack, did he, Michael?”
Michael’s eyes darted wildly toward Teresa.
Teresa slowly stood up from her chair.
“Michael,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Tell me you didn’t hurt your father.”
Michael swallowed hard. He looked at his mother, and for a split second, genuine shame flickered across his face.
“His heart was failing,” Michael choked out, tears suddenly welling in his eyes. “He grabbed his chest. He fell to the floor. He begged me to get his pills from the desk.”
The room went dead silent.
“And?” Luca demanded.
“He had the new will on the desk, Luca! The one that cut me out entirely! He was going to fly to Italy the next morning and leave me with nothing!”
Michael sobbed, a pathetic, ugly sound.
“I told him I’d give him the pills if he tore up the will and signed everything to me. I just wanted what I deserved!”
Teresa let out a wail of absolute agony. She collapsed against Marcus, crying hysterically.
“He refused,” Michael cried. “He just looked at me… and he refused. He said he’d rather die than let me ruin the family. So… I let him.”
I felt sick to my stomach.
He watched his own father die over money.
Luca let go of Michael’s throat.
He stepped back, disgusted.
“You’re dead to me,” Luca said quietly.
He turned to Marcus.
“Take him to the warehouse. Lock him in the basement. Tomorrow morning, hand him over to the feds with the recorded confession of what he just said.”
“No!” Michael screamed as Marcus grabbed him by the collar. “Luca, please! I’m your brother!”
“My brother died fourteen years ago when he stopped defending this family,” Luca said without looking back.
As Marcus dragged Michael out the front door, the red and blue flashing lights of police cruisers flooded the windows.
Luca’s loyal men had already called it in.
The nightmare was finally over.
Luca walked slowly over to his mother. He knelt in front of her, taking her frail hands in his.
“He didn’t hate me, Mom,” Luca whispered, tears finally falling freely.
Teresa cupped her son’s bruised face.
“He loved you every single day, my boy. He never stopped waiting for you to come home.”
Luca closed his eyes, resting his forehead against her knees.
May you like
I stood by the window, watching the rain finally begin to slow, clutching the yellow paper that saved the family.
For the first time in four years, the Moretti house finally felt like a home again.
