Chapter 6 - THE RESTAURANT DEED
The faded photograph slipped from my fingers, fluttering like a dead leaf until it landed on the scuffed linoleum floor of my mother’s apartment.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t form a single coherent thought.
“No,” I whispered, stumbling backward until my shoulders hit the floral wallpaper. “No, that’s impossible. Clara is my mother. She raised me.”
Luca picked up the photograph.
His massive frame was completely still as he stared at the image of the baby in the hospital crib.
“My mother didn’t die in that crash twenty years ago,” Luca said, his voice thick with a profound, terrifying awe. “She survived. She was pregnant. My father hid her in a private clinic to keep Salvatore from finishing the job. But she died in childbirth five years later.”
He looked up at me.
“Clara didn’t just work for my father, Emily. She was the woman my father trusted to take his newborn daughter and disappear into the city. She raised you to protect you.”
I shook my head, pressing my hands against my ears.
“Stop,” I cried. “I’m a maid. I grew up clipping coupons and riding the bus. I’m not a Moretti!”
Luca crossed the room in two strides.
He gently pulled my hands away from my face.
“You translated Italian fluently tonight,” Luca said softly, his dark eyes searching mine. “You recognized the ink on a forged ticket. You swung a silver pitcher at a billionaire to protect my brother. You have the heart of a Moretti, Emily. You always have.”
A choked sob tore from my throat.
Luca pulled me into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around me, shielding me from the shattered reality of the apartment.
“You are my sister,” Luca whispered fiercely into my hair. “And I swear to God, nobody will ever hurt you again.”
For a moment, I let myself break.
I let myself lean against the older brother I never knew I had.
But then I remembered the wheelchair in the center of the room.
I pulled back, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket.
“Carlo has Clara,” I said, my voice hardening. “He took the woman who raised me. He wants you to bring me to the restaurant by midnight, or he’ll kill her.”
Luca’s expression turned lethal.
“Daniel,” Luca commanded over his shoulder.
“Boss.”
“We’re going to the restaurant. Call Michael. Tell him to meet us there.”
“Sir, the text said to come alone,” Daniel warned. “Vitale will have snipers on the adjacent roofs. If we roll up with a tactical team, he’ll execute the hostage before we breach the door.”
“I’m not bringing a tactical team,” Luca said coldly. “I’m bringing the deed to the building.”
We ran back to the SUV.
The drive to the Moretti family restaurant in Little Italy was silent.
The streets were empty, the rain beginning to fall in sheets, slicking the cobblestone roads.
The restaurant was a historic brick building with the familiar gold lion carved above the mahogany double doors.
It was completely dark inside.
Luca parked the SUV a block away, in the shadow of an old church.
He turned the engine off.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a heavy manila envelope.
“This is the original deed to the restaurant,” Luca said, tapping the envelope against the steering wheel. “It’s what Salvatore and Carlo have wanted for twenty years. It’s the key to their shipping port expansion.”
“You’re going to trade the building for Clara?” I asked.
Luca looked at me.
“I’m going to trade the paper to get inside,” Luca corrected. “Once I’m inside, Carlo Vitale is not walking out.”
He opened his door.
“Stay in the car, Emily.”
“I’m going with you,” I insisted, grabbing the door handle.
“No.” Luca’s voice was absolute. “He wants you to guarantee my surrender. If you walk in there, he has all the leverage. You stay here. Lock the doors.”
He didn’t wait for my argument.
Luca stepped out into the rain, his black overcoat billowing in the wind, and walked toward the dark restaurant.
I sat in the passenger seat, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I watched him approach the heavy mahogany doors.
He pushed them open and disappeared into the darkness.
Ten minutes passed.
It felt like ten hours.
The rain drummed against the windshield.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
It wasn’t the cracked phone from the apartment. It was the burner phone Luca had handed me in the car.
I answered it.
“Hello?”
“Emily.”
It was Michael’s voice. He sounded breathless, panicked.
“Michael? Where are you?”
“I’m in the alley behind the restaurant,” Michael gasped. “Emily, you have to get out of there. Carlo isn’t inside the restaurant.”
My blood ran cold.
“What do you mean? Luca just walked in there.”
“It’s a trap,” Michael cried. “I found the back door propped open. The restaurant is rigged. There are gas cans everywhere. Carlo isn’t waiting for a trade. He’s waiting for Luca to walk into the center of the room so he can blow the building!”
I dropped the phone.
I threw open the SUV door and sprinted down the rain-slicked street.
“Luca!” I screamed, my voice lost in the thunder.
I reached the heavy mahogany doors of the restaurant.
They were locked from the inside.
I pounded my fists against the wood.
“Luca! Get out!”
Through the thick glass window of the door, I saw a flicker of orange light in the darkness.
Someone had lit a flare in the back kitchen.
Before I could grab a rock to smash the glass, a heavy hand clamped over my mouth from behind.
A thick, muscular arm wrapped around my waist, lifting my feet off the ground.
“You should have stayed in the car, little bird,” a familiar, terrifying voice whispered in my ear.
It was Carlo Vitale.
He dragged me backward, into the dark, narrow alley beside the restaurant.
I kicked and thrashed, my nails digging into his arm, but he was too strong.
“Watch the fireworks, Emily,” Carlo laughed maliciously, forcing my head toward the restaurant windows. “Watch the great Luca Moretti burn.”
Carlo raised his other hand.
He was holding a small electronic detonator.
He pressed his thumb against the red button.
I screamed against his hand.
But the explosion didn’t come from the restaurant.
It came from the shadows of the alley.
A heavy, metallic CRACK echoed through the brick walls.
Carlo screamed, dropping the detonator as his knee shattered.
He collapsed to the wet pavement, releasing me.
I stumbled forward, turning around to see who had fired the shot.
Standing in the pouring rain, holding a smoking shotgun, was an older woman sitting in a motorized wheelchair.
My mother.
May you like
Clara Carter.
And standing right beside her, holding an umbrella over her head, was Vanessa Bellini.
