Chapter 6 - THE UMBRELLA IN THE RAIN
The heavy rain pounded against the windshield of the rusted truck, distorting the menacing line of black SUVs blocking the street.
Vincent Moretti stood in the center of the road, perfectly dry under his large black umbrella, looking incredibly bored by the violence surrounding him. He was flanked by a dozen heavily armed men loyal to the Moretti family.
“Luca!” Vincent called out, his voice amplified by a megaphone. “You’ve had your fun playing hero. Bring the truck forward and hand over the ticket. And the cook.”
Luca’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. He looked at the blockade, his mind calculating the impossible odds. The truck couldn't ram through six armored vehicles, and we couldn't outrun their bullets.
“He got out of the holding cell,” Luca growled, fury radiating from him. “Marco must have let him out.”
“Marco wouldn't betray you,” I said frantically, holding my bleeding father tightly against me. “He locked Vincent up on your orders!”
“Marco is loyal to the family, Rachel,” Luca said coldly. “Not just to me. When Vincent told him what was at stake—that if the ticket gets out, the Commission will execute both me and Vincent for our father’s treason—Marco made a choice to protect the empire.”
He was completely cut off. Betrayed by his own brother, surrounded by his own men.
“I’m not giving them the ticket,” I whispered fiercely, clutching the small, folded paper in my pocket. “If Vincent destroys this, my mom’s whole life… all her sacrifices… they mean nothing.”
My father groaned, shifting in my arms. His face was gray, the blood soaking through my shirt. “Give it to him, Rachel,” Dad rasped, his eyes barely open. “It’s over. Just give it to him and live.”
“No,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly calm.
Luca turned to me, his dark eyes intense, burning with a reckless, undeniable devotion.
“Your mother spent twenty-three years paying a debt she didn't owe to keep you safe,” Luca said softly. “I am not going to let my family take anything else from you.”
He reached across the seat and gently touched my cheek.
“Hold onto your father,” Luca ordered.
He threw the truck into gear. But he didn't drive forward toward Vincent.
He slammed his foot on the gas and cranked the steering wheel hard to the right.
The heavy pickup truck roared, jumping the curb, smashing through a wooden fence, and tearing directly into the local cemetery that bordered Maple Street.
Vincent’s men instantly opened fire. Bullets shattered the back window of the truck, spraying glass over the seats. I screamed, ducking low, covering my father with my body as Luca navigated the truck blindly through the dark rows of headstones.
“They’re following us!” I yelled, looking back through the shattered window. Two of the armored SUVs had jumped the curb and were tearing through the cemetery behind us, their headlights bouncing wildly over the graves.
Luca didn't slow down. He drove with reckless, instinctual precision, dodging massive marble monuments and ancient oak trees.
“Where are we going?!” I panicked, holding a towel tightly to my dad’s shoulder.
“To the only place in this city where Vincent can't touch us,” Luca yelled over the roar of the engine.
He slammed on the brakes, throwing the truck into a violent skid that tore up the manicured grass. We slid to a halt right in front of the largest, most imposing mausoleum in the cemetery.
It was a massive, gothic structure built of black marble, surrounded by high wrought-iron fencing.
Engraved above the heavy iron doors was the name: MORETTI.
It was the family crypt. The resting place of Luca’s murdered sister, Elena, and his traitorous father.
Luca kicked the driver’s door open. “Get out! Get your dad inside!”
I scrambled out of the truck, hauling my father with me. He was heavy, his legs dragging, but adrenaline fueled my movements. Luca grabbed Dad’s other arm, and together we hauled him up the marble steps to the crypt.
Luca didn't have a key. He raised his semi-automatic and fired point-blank into the heavy iron lock. The lock shattered. Luca kicked the heavy doors open, dragging us inside.
He slammed the doors shut just as the two SUVs skidded to a halt outside.
The crypt was freezing cold, smelling of old stone and dried flowers. Moonlight filtered through a small, stained-glass window near the ceiling, casting eerie colors over the marble tombs lining the walls.
I lowered my father gently to the cold stone floor, pressing the bloody towel against his wound.
“We’re trapped,” I whispered, terrified, listening to the sound of heavy boots hitting the pavement outside. “They’re going to breach the doors.”
“They won’t breach the doors,” Luca said, holstering his weapon. He wasn't panting. He looked entirely calm.
“Why not?” I asked, confused.
“Because shooting up the family crypt is a violation of the Commission’s oldest law,” Luca explained, walking toward the massive tomb in the center of the room. “If Vincent brings violence into this sacred ground, he loses all respect from the other families. He has to negotiate.”
Right on cue, the heavy iron doors creaked open just an inch.
“Luca!” Vincent’s voice echoed into the crypt, tense and frustrated. “This is ridiculous! Come out here!”
“Come inside, Vincent,” Luca called back smoothly. “Unarmed. Just you.”
There was a long pause. Then, the heavy doors slowly groaned open.
Vincent stepped inside. He had left his umbrella and his men outside. He stood in the doorway, looking around the dark, cold crypt, shivering slightly in his wet suit.
“You’re out of your mind,” Vincent sneered, taking a step toward us. “You’re risking our entire empire for a short-order cook and a waitress.”
“I’m securing our empire,” Luca corrected, stepping in front of me and my father. “You want the ticket, Vincent? It’s yours.”
I froze, staring at Luca in absolute betrayal. “What? No! Luca, you promised!”
Luca didn't look at me. He kept his eyes locked on his brother.
“I’ll give you the ticket,” Luca said coldly. “But in exchange, you sign over your half of the Moretti properties to me. The ports, the real estate, the casino contracts. All of it.”
Vincent laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “You want me to surrender my half of the family business for a piece of paper?”
“If the Commission sees that piece of paper, you don't have a business,” Luca pointed out smoothly. “You have a death sentence. The ticket proves our father broke the code. They will execute you, Vincent. Sign over the properties, and you can take the ticket and burn it.”
Vincent stared at him, his mind working frantically. He hated losing power, but he valued his life more.
“Fine,” Vincent spat. “I’ll have my lawyers draft the transfer tomorrow. Give me the ticket.”
“Not until the ink is dry,” Luca said.
Vincent glared at him, pure hatred burning in his eyes. But he nodded. “Fine. But the cook and his daughter don't leave this crypt until it’s done.”
He turned to walk out.
But as Vincent reached the heavy iron doors, a low, rasping voice echoed from the floor behind us.
“He’s lying, Luca.”
We all turned.
My father was struggling to sit up against a marble tomb, clutching his bleeding shoulder. His eyes were focused, burning with a sudden, desperate clarity.
“He doesn't want the ticket to destroy it,” Dad gasped, pointing a shaking, bloody finger at Vincent. “He wants the ticket to blackmail Dominic Bellini into handing over the Bellini territory.”
Luca frowned, looking at my dad. “What are you talking about?”
“I heard them,” Dad coughed, blood speckling his lips. “Twenty-three years ago. Before I left town. I was in your father’s office when Vincent walked in.”
Dad looked directly at Vincent, the twenty-three-year-old secret finally spilling from his lips.
“Your father didn't discover that Dominic killed Elena, Vincent,” Dad whispered. “You did.”
The crypt went dead silent.
“And instead of telling your father so he could avenge his daughter,” Dad continued, “you blackmailed Dominic. You forced Dominic to give you a cut of the Bellini casino profits in exchange for keeping his secret. When your father found the ticket, you convinced him to let me take the fall, so you wouldn't lose your blackmail money.”
I stared at Vincent in absolute horror. He had sold his own sister’s justice for casino money.
Vincent’s face went pale, a sickly, ghostly white in the moonlight.
He didn't argue. He didn't deny it.
May you like
He slowly reached inside his wet suit jacket and pulled out a suppressed pistol.
“You should have died in the alley, cook,” Vincent whispered, raising the gun directly at my father’s head.
