Chapter 3 - THE SILVER LIGHTER
The business card lay on the pristine white china of Luca’s dinner plate like a drop of poison.
Bellini Fine Dining. Catering by Chef Dante Bellini.
The silence in the dining room shattered into frantic whispers. The guests, thirty-two of Chicago’s most powerful and influential people, suddenly looked down at their half-eaten plates of Wagyu beef and truffle risotto with naked horror.
If there was no catering company, who had cooked the food?
Who was currently standing in Luca Moretti’s kitchen?
Luca didn't flinch. He didn't look at his plate. He picked up the business card between his index and middle fingers, turning it slowly in the chandelier light.
“An abandoned warehouse,” Luca repeated, his voice dangerously soft.
“Yes, sir,” I said, my hands still folded tightly in my lap. “The city condemned the building three years ago. The roof collapsed. There is no commercial kitchen there. It’s completely empty.”
Answer one. The $50,000 wasn't for expensive ingredients. It was a direct payoff to a ghost company.
But that opened two new, terrifying questions. Why did Vanessa need to launder fifty thousand dollars out of Luca’s accounts so desperately? And who were the strangers currently walking freely through the mansion’s service halls?
Vanessa backed away from the table, her crimson dress swishing against the marble.
“She’s lying,” Vanessa stammered, her chest heaving. “She’s a jealous, uneducated little girl trying to ruin my wedding. My cousin Dante flew in from New York to handle this dinner personally!”
Luca stood up.
He didn't yell. He didn't raise a hand. But the sheer, imposing presence of the man commanded absolute obedience.
“Marco,” Luca said without looking away from Vanessa.
“Yes, Mr. Moretti.”
“Go to the kitchen. Tell the head chef to come to the dining room immediately.”
Marco nodded once and turned toward the service doors.
“No!” Vanessa shouted, lunging forward to grab Marco’s arm.
Marco stopped, looking down at her hand with profound disgust. He gently, but firmly, pried her fingers off his jacket.
“Don't touch me, Mrs. Bellini,” Marco said quietly. He turned and walked through the swinging wooden doors.
The room waited.
The guests were entirely still. Several of the men casually reached inside their tailored suit jackets, their hands resting over hidden holsters. This wasn't just a wealthy social circle. This was the Moretti family. Disrespect here was dealt with quickly and permanently.
I looked at Vanessa. She was trembling so violently I thought she might collapse. She kept glancing toward the large, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the dark estate grounds.
She wasn't looking for a way out.
She was looking for someone.
A heavy, suffocating dread settled into my stomach.
Two minutes passed.
Then, the swinging doors from the kitchen pushed open.
Marco walked back into the dining room. He was alone.
His face was completely pale. The quiet confidence he had regained just moments ago was entirely gone.
“Marco,” Luca said, his eyes narrowing. “Where is the chef?”
Marco swallowed hard. He looked at me, then at Vanessa, and finally at Luca.
“The kitchen is empty, sir,” Marco said, his voice barely a whisper.
The guests erupted. Chairs scraped loudly against the marble floor as several men stood up, forming a protective barrier around the table.
“Empty?” Luca demanded, stepping away from his chair. “There were six caterers in that room twenty minutes ago.”
“They’re gone, Mr. Moretti,” Marco said, his hands shaking. “The service entrance in the back is wide open. The delivery vans are gone. They left all the equipment. They just walked out.”
Vanessa let out a strangled sob and covered her face.
The reversal hit me fast. They hadn't stayed to collect the rest of their money. They hadn't stayed to serve dessert. Once the dinner was plated, they had vanished into the night.
They didn't care about the dinner. They only cared about getting inside the house.
“Lock the estate down,” Luca ordered the men standing around the table. “Nobody gets in or out. Check the perimeter. Check the safe.”
Three men immediately pulled radios from their jackets and sprinted out of the dining room.
Luca turned his furious gaze back to Vanessa.
“Who did you bring into my house, Vanessa?” Luca roared, finally losing his iron-clad composure. “Who did you give fifty thousand dollars to?”
Vanessa fell to her knees.
“I had to!” she wept, her voice echoing tragically. “They were going to hurt me, Luca! I owed them money! From the casinos in Macau. They bought my debt. They said if I didn't get them inside the house tonight, they would tell you everything!”
“Who?” Luca grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him.
Before Vanessa could answer, a sharp, metallic clink echoed from the far end of the long dining table.
Everyone froze.
At the very end of the table, sitting quietly in a chair that was supposed to be empty, was a man.
He hadn't been there when dinner started. He must have slipped in while everyone was focused on Marco and Vanessa.
He was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, but he didn't look like a guest. His face was weathered, marked by a thin, jagged scar that ran from his left ear to his jawline.
He was holding a heavy, silver Zippo lighter.
He flipped the lid open. Clink.
He struck the flint. A bright orange flame illuminated his cold, dead eyes.
He slowly lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and blew a stream of gray smoke across the crystal wine glasses.
“She didn't bring me inside, Luca,” the man said, his voice gravelly and thick with a heavy New York accent.
Vanessa scrambled backward across the floor, screaming in pure terror.
May you like
The man closed the silver lighter with a sharp snap.
“She just paid me fifty grand to leave the back door unlocked.”
