Chapter 7 - THE COUSIN’S RECKONING
Victor Moretti’s face was bruised along the left jawline—evidently from one of Dante’s security guards during the chaos at the gates—and his eyes were wild, bloodshot, and desperate.
“Put the deeds down, cousin,” Victor said, his voice echoing off the glass roof. “You think a few federal agents and a ruined engagement party are going to stop what my father started twenty-five years ago?”
Luca slowly stood up from the floor, placing the legal deeds back inside the velvet-lined compartment before closing the wooden trapdoor with his foot.
He didn't reach for his gun. He didn't look panicked.
“Corrado is already sitting in a federal holding cell, Victor,” Luca said, his voice cold and steady. “Your father’s empire ended last night. Why throw your life away for a foundation that was legally dissolved before you even finished high school?”
“Because that empire belongs to us!” Victor roared, taking two heavy steps down the center aisle of the greenhouse, swinging the steel pipe against an empty terracotta pot. It shattered into a dozen pieces. “Your mother stole everything my father worked for! She signed away the docks to orphans and charities while we did the dirty work on the streets!”
Victor’s eyes darted toward me.
“And who’s this?” he sneered. “The little maid from Bridgeport? What, did you make her your new fiancée after Vanessa got arrested?”
I stood up slowly, keeping my bandaged hand behind my back. “I’m not a maid anymore, Mr. Moretti. And you’re standing on property that doesn't belong to your family.”
Victor laughed—a harsh, ugly sound. “You think a piece of paper stops a bullet? My father’s men are still out there, Luca. And when they find out—”
“Your father’s men aren't coming, Victor,” a calm, gravelly voice interrupted from the doorway.
We all turned.
Standing just outside the open doors, leaning heavily on a wooden cane, was eighty-year-old Viktor Petrov.
Behind him stood Dante and two federal marshals with their weapons holstered, blocking every possible exit from the greenhouse.
Victor spun around, raising the steel pipe. “Get out of my way, old man!”
Viktor didn't flinch. He raised his cane and pointed it directly at Victor’s chest.
“I’ve gardened this estate for thirty years, boy,” Viktor said quietly. “I planted every oak tree, every rose bush, and every hedge you used to hide behind when you were a coward playing games in the dark. You think I didn't hear you coming down the gravel path five minutes ago?”
Victor looked frantically toward the doors, realizing the marshals had him boxed in completely.
“You’re finished, Victor,” Luca said, closing the distance between them in two long strides before the younger man could swing the pipe.
Luca didn't give him a chance to react. He caught Victor’s wrist with his left hand, twisted it sharply upward until the steel pipe clattered against the stone floor, and drove the palm of his right hand upward into Victor’s chin.
Victor folded instantly, collapsing onto the damp earth between the empty flower beds.
Dante stepped inside, grabbed Victor by the collar of his jacket, and hauled him to his feet. “Federal marshals have you covered, Victor. Let’s take a walk.”
As Dante dragged the sputtering, cursing cousin out of the greenhouse, silence settled back over the glass walls.
Luca let out a long breath, running a hand through his dark hair. He looked down at the cedar floorboards where his mother’s legacy had been hidden for a quarter of a century.
“It’s over,” Luca whispered.
“Really over?” I asked.
May you like
He looked up, meeting my eyes with a soft, genuine expression that I had never seen on his face before.
“Really over,” Luca said. He reached down, picked up the leather-bound journal of his mother’s, and held it out toward me. “And I think the first person who deserves to read what Clara Moretti wrote about your family is you, Claire.”
