Chapter 3 - THE SCARRED HAND
Isabella let out a tiny gasp. She slipped out of her chair and hid behind my apron, her small hands gripping the fabric tightly.
“That’s mine,” Isabella whispered, pointing at the crumpled paper on the tablecloth. “She took it from my room yesterday.”
I placed a protective hand on the little girl’s shoulder. Luca picked up the glass vial, unscrewed the cap, and held it to his nose. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked beneath his skin.
“Pure, concentrated almond oil,” Luca stated, tossing the vial onto the table. It rolled and clinked against Vanessa’s lipstick. “Enough to kill three people before the ambulances could even breach the front gates.”
He picked up the drawing. It was a crayon sketch Isabella had made of her family. Luca was drawn in a black suit. Isabella in a pink dress. But behind them, looming like a dark shadow, was a stick figure of a man holding a briefcase. The man had a distinct red jagged scribble across his right hand.
“Why did you steal my daughter's drawing, Vanessa?” Luca asked quietly.
Vanessa was trembling so violently her knees buckled, sending her sinking into her dining chair. “I didn't... I just thought it was messy...”
“Isabella,” Luca said gently, never taking his eyes off his fiancée. “Who is the man in your picture?”
Isabella peeked out from behind my apron. “The angry man who yelled at Vanessa in the library last week. He told her she was running out of time. He had a big red scar on his hand.”
Vanessa wasn't acting alone. The realization rippled through the room. She was arrogant, cruel, and manipulative, but she wasn't a mastermind. Someone was pulling her strings.
“A scar,” Luca repeated.
At the far end of the table, Don Bellini suddenly stood up, knocking his crystal wine glass over. The red wine bled into the white tablecloth like a fresh wound. “This is a disgrace!” Bellini bellowed, performing his outrage perfectly. “My own daughter, a murderer! I disown you, Vanessa! I will not stand here and be humiliated by your treachery!”
He turned sharply, raising his hand to slap his daughter across the face in a theatrical display of paternal fury.
But as his hand rose into the light of the crystal chandelier, the cuff of his tailored suit pulled back. A thick, jagged burn scar stretched across the back of his right hand.
Luca saw it. Michael saw it. I saw it.
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Before Bellini’s hand could strike Vanessa, Luca drew the black pistol from his shoulder holster and pressed the barrel directly against the center of Don Bellini’s forehead.
“You aren't disowning anyone tonight, old man,” Luca whispered.
