Chapter 2 - THE SECOND BAG
Luca didn't wait for Daniel to come upstairs.
He took the grand staircase two steps at a time, his dark suit jacket unbuttoned, his hand resting near the holster beneath his arm.
I followed behind him as fast as I could, cradling my right arm in the crisp white sling Dr. Harris had strapped around my neck. Every rapid step sent a fresh jolt of agony beneath my shoulder blade, where the corner of that mahogany cabinet had dug into my flesh.
"Stay behind me, Sophie," Luca ordered without looking back.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the kind of authority that made grown men cross to the other side of the street in Chicago.
When we reached the master suite on the second floor, the heavy oak door was slightly ajar.
Luca pushed it open with the toe of his polished shoe.
The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the bedside lamps. The king-sized bed was neatly turned down—a task I had completed at two o'clock that afternoon before my shift turned into a nightmare.
Except the charcoal silk runner at the foot of the mattress was crooked.
Someone had been on their knees beside the frame.
Luca walked to the left side of the bed and dropped down onto one knee, completely disregarding his five-thousand-dollar tailored trousers. He reached beneath the low mahogany bedframe.
When his hand came back out, he wasn't holding a black leather bag.
His palm was covered in fine, chalky white plaster dust.
He stood up slowly, his dark eyes narrowing as he looked at his fingers.
"She didn't just slide it under the bed," Luca said quietly. "Move back, Sophie."
He gripped the edge of the heavy box spring and lifted it with a single, violent heave, shoving the mattress sideways against the wall.
Beneath the wooden slats of the bed frame, a two-foot section of the antique parquet flooring had been pried up. Set into the subfloor was an old, rusted ventilation shaft that ran directly down to the mansion's furnace room.
Resting on the metal lip of the shaft was the smaller black leather bag.
Luca reached down and pulled it out. It was heavy, sagging slightly in the middle.
He set it on the dresser and unzipped the top.
I stepped closer, my heart hammering against my ribs. I expected to see stacks of cash, or maybe the bearer bonds rumor said Luca kept in his private safe. Or worse—a bomb meant to go off after they left for the cathedral on Saturday.
Luca reached inside and pulled out a padded velvet tray.
It wasn't money. And it wasn't a weapon.
Lying in the custom-cut foam slots were four vintage wristwatches, a tangled pearl bracelet with a broken clasp, and a child's small, laminated Saint Christopher medal on a frayed blue cord.
Luca went completely rigid.
The silence in the bedroom became suffocating. I watched the muscle in his jaw feather as he stared down at the frayed blue cord.
"Mr. Moretti?" I whispered. "Are those from your study?"
"They were in the floor safe behind my bookshelves," he said, his voice dropping so low I could barely hear him. "A safe that requires a six-digit code and a physical key I keep on my keyring."
"How did the photographer open it?"
"He didn't," Luca said, lifting the Saint Christopher medal with trembling fingers. "Because these weren't stolen today, Sophie."
I blinked, confused. "Sir?"
"My floor safe has been empty for three years," Luca said, turning his dark, terrifying gaze on me. "These items belonged to my late sister, Elena, and her seven-year-old son, Leo. They were wearing them the night their car went into the Chicago River. The police told me the current washed their bodies out to Lake Michigan. Nothing was ever recovered."
A cold chill raced down my spine, making me forget the throbbing in my back.
If these items weren't in Luca's study safe, then Andrew Keller hadn't gone into that study to steal them.
He had gone in there to put them back.
Luca reached deeper into the leather bag and pulled out a thick manila folder. Inside was a single, eight-by-ten glossy photograph developed on heavy paper.
He slid it out.
I leaned over his shoulder and gasped.
It was a picture taken through a rain-streaked windshield. It showed a young woman with Luca's dark eyes standing on a train platform in Milwaukee, holding the hand of a little boy wearing a oversized wool coat.
In the bottom corner of the photograph was a digital timestamp from a security camera.
It was dated four months after the night they supposedly drowned.
And standing right behind them in the blurred background of the photo, holding an umbrella over their heads, was Vanessa Bellini.
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Suddenly, the walkie-talkie clipped to the belt of Daniel, who had just reached the bedroom doorway, crackled to life.
"Boss! Get down to the kitchen!" one of the guards yelled over the static. "Keller didn't pack his gear. He's gone—and he took Miss Bellini with him at gunpoint!"
