Chapter 8 - THE MAID'S UNIFORM IN THE PENTHOUSE
“Me?” I gasped, staring at the faded speeding ticket in Luca’s hand as if it were a live grenade. “Luca, you can't be serious. I’m a diner waitress. I don't know anything about the Commission or casinos or mafia summits!”
“Exactly,” Luca said smoothly, his eyes dark and calculating. He didn't look crazy; he looked like a man who had found the perfect lockpick. “They know my face. They know Marco’s men. If any of us try to walk into that casino during a summit, we’ll be shot before we reach the lobby. But they don't know you, Rachel.”
I shook my head frantically, standing up and pacing the thick carpet of the bedroom. “Vincent knows me! He told them about the diner!”
“Vincent is currently chained to a radiator in a warehouse at the docks,” Luca pointed out coldly. “He won’t be telling anyone anything. And Dominic Bellini only saw you for ten seconds in a dark, smoke-filled alley before his face was melted off by grease.”
The memory of the boiling oil made my stomach churn.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked, wrapping my arms around myself.
“The summit is being held in the private VIP dining room on the top floor of the Bellini Casino,” Luca explained, pulling a floor plan up on his smartphone. “They hire a massive catering staff for these events. Marco already made a call. There is a cater-waiter uniform waiting for you in the closet. You walk in, you serve the champagne, and when the time is right, you drop the ticket on the center of the table in front of Don Vincenzo.”
“Don Vincenzo?”
“The head of the Commission,” Luca clarified. “The oldest boss in the city. He is a strict traditionalist. If he sees proof that Dominic killed a boss’s daughter and hid it for twenty-three years, Vincenzo won't just kill Dominic. He will dismantle the entire Bellini empire.”
“And what happens to me when I drop the ticket?” I asked, my voice trembling. “They won’t just let me walk out!”
“You won’t be alone,” Luca promised, standing up, ignoring the wince of pain from his shoulder. He walked over to me, placing his hands gently on my shoulders. “I’ll be in the building. Marco has a team ready to cut the power to the VIP floor exactly thirty seconds after you drop the ticket. In the darkness, you slip out the service door. We’ll be waiting in the stairwell.”
It was terrifying. It was a suicide mission.
I looked over at the bed. My father was sleeping soundly, the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor the only sound in the room. He had given up twenty-three years of his life, his marriage, and my childhood, all to keep me safe from these monsters.
If I didn't do this, we would spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders.
I looked back at Luca. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
The next twenty-four hours were a blur of nervous preparation.
Marco arrived with a pristine, starched white shirt, black slacks, and a small, discrete earpiece. He spent hours drilling me on the layout of the VIP dining room, the faces of the Commission bosses, and the exact timing of the blackout.
By 7:00 PM the next evening, I was standing in the chaotic, bustling catering kitchen on the top floor of the Bellini Casino.
The room smelled of expensive truffles, roasted meats, and nervous sweat. Dozens of waiters in identical uniforms were rushing around with silver trays. I blended in perfectly.
I checked my reflection in the stainless-steel refrigerator. I looked pale, my hair pulled back into a tight bun. Hidden in the secret pocket sewn into the inside of my apron was the folded speeding ticket.
“You’re up, new girl,” the catering manager snapped, shoving a heavy silver tray loaded with champagne flutes into my hands. “Table one. The Dons. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not spill.”
I nodded numbly, gripping the edges of the tray so hard my knuckles turned white.
I pushed through the swinging doors into the VIP dining room.
The room was breathtakingly opulent, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city skyline. A massive, round mahogany table sat in the center.
Sitting around the table were five elderly men in bespoke suits. The Commission.
And sitting at the far right, his face wrapped in thick, white medical bandages leaving only his eyes and mouth visible, was Dominic Bellini. He had survived the grease trap, but he looked like a monster.
“Take a breath, Rachel,” Luca’s voice crackled softly in my earpiece. “You’re doing fine. Walk to the head of the table.”
I forced my legs to move. I approached the table, my eyes fixed on the man sitting at the head. Don Vincenzo. He looked incredibly frail, but his eyes were sharp and predatory.
I began serving the champagne, my hands remarkably steady despite the terror threatening to choke me.
The men ignored me completely, continuing their hushed conversation in rapid Italian.
“Now, Rachel,” Luca’s voice commanded in my ear.
I reached into the hidden pocket of my apron.
My fingers brushed against the thick paper of the speeding ticket. I pulled it out, hiding it behind the silver tray.
I stepped up to Don Vincenzo to place his glass on the table.
As I set the crystal flute down, I smoothly slid the folded ticket from behind the tray and placed it directly onto the polished mahogany, right in front of the Don’s plate.
Vincenzo stopped talking.
He frowned, looking down at the piece of paper that didn't belong on his pristine table.
He picked it up. He unfolded it.
I didn't wait to see his reaction. I immediately turned and began walking briskly toward the service doors at the back of the room, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
“Thirty seconds, Rachel,” Luca said in my ear.
“Wait!” a muffled, angry voice barked from the table.
I froze, glancing over my shoulder.
Dominic Bellini had recognized me. Even with his face wrapped in bandages, his pale eyes burned with recognition. He stood up, knocking his chair back.
“Grab her!” Dominic yelled to the guards standing near the doors. “She’s the cook’s daughter!”
Two massive guards immediately lunged toward me.
“Luca, they made me!” I screamed, dropping the silver tray. It hit the floor with a deafening crash, champagne and crystal shattering across the carpet.
“Cut the power!” Luca roared through the earpiece.
But nothing happened. The lights stayed on. The room remained blindingly bright.
“Marco, the power!” Luca yelled again, panic bleeding into his voice.
“I can’t, boss!” Marco’s voice cracked in my ear. “They changed the breaker codes! We’re locked out of the system!”
The plan had failed.
One of the guards grabbed my arm, wrenching it behind my back with brutal force. I cried out, struggling wildly, but it was useless.
Don Vincenzo stood up from the table, holding the speeding ticket. His frail hands were shaking, not from age, but from absolute, murderous fury.
He looked at Dominic Bellini.
“You killed Elena Moretti?” Vincenzo whispered, his voice echoing in the sudden silence of the room. “You broke the peace? You started the war?”
Dominic’s eyes widened in panic. “Vincenzo, it’s a forgery! It’s a trick!”
“The ticket is real,” a new voice boomed from the back of the room.
Everyone turned.
The heavy service doors were kicked open.
Luca Moretti walked into the VIP dining room. He wasn't hiding in the stairwell. He wasn't running.
He held a heavy, black assault rifle, aimed directly at Don Vincenzo’s chest.
“Let her go,” Luca ordered, his voice cold as ice. “Or I kill the entire Commission.”
But as Luca stepped fully into the light, I noticed something that made my blood run cold.
Luca wasn't looking at Dominic.
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He was looking directly at Don Vincenzo, and his eyes were filled with a profound, terrifying betrayal.
“You knew, didn't you, Vincenzo?” Luca whispered, the gun trembling slightly in his hands. “You knew Dominic killed my sister.”
