THE RESURRECTION OF ISABELLA MORETTI

The underground servant tunnels of the Bellini estate smelled of damp earth and old concrete.

The narrow passageway was pitch black, illuminated only by the small flashlight on Vanessa’s phone.

I walked closely behind her, my heart thumping against my ribs.

Above our heads, the muffled, concussive sounds of heavy gunfire echoed through the ceiling.

Luca, Anthony, and Marco had launched the assault on the south wall exactly ten minutes ago. The diversion was working—every guard in the Bellini compound had rushed outward to defend the perimeter.

“We’re directly under the study,” Vanessa whispered, stopping in front of a rusted iron ladder bolted to the concrete wall.

She turned to look at me, her face pale in the harsh phone light.

“When we go up through the floor grate, we have to move fast. Vincent might not be alone.”

I nodded, gripping the handle of the small pistol Luca had given me before we left.

Vanessa climbed the ladder first. She pushed hard against the heavy iron grate above her head. It groaned in protest, then flipped open, landing softly on the thick Persian rug of the study.

She scrambled up, reaching down to help me.

I pulled myself into Vincent’s study.

The room was completely dark, save for the flashing red lights of the estate’s security alarm spinning silently in the corners.

The heavy mahogany doors leading to the hallway were closed. We could hear shouting and boots running past them.

“The vault,” I whispered, pointing to the large painting on the far wall.

Vanessa hurried over, pushing the painting aside to reveal the heavy steel door.

She pointed to a small, secondary panel beneath the biometric fingerprint scanner. She flipped a plastic cover up, revealing a tiny, sharp metallic pin next to a glass slide.

“Press your thumb against the pin,” Vanessa instructed, her voice shaking. “It takes a micro-sample of blood and runs a rapid DNA match against Vincent’s profile.”

I didn't hesitate.

I pressed my right thumb hard against the sharp pin. A sharp sting pierced my skin, and a drop of bright red blood smeared across the glass slide.

The machine whirred quietly. A yellow light blinked on the panel.

Processing.

The seconds felt like hours. Above us, the gunfire intensified, shaking the glass windows of the study.

Then, the panel chimed.

A bright green light flashed.

Match Confirmed.

The heavy steel door hissed, the internal locking mechanisms disengaging with heavy metallic clunks.

I grabbed the heavy handle and pulled the vault open.

The shelves were lined with dozens of thick ledgers, manila envelopes, and stacks of cash.

“Grab the ledgers with the red bindings,” Vanessa ordered, tossing a black duffel bag onto the floor. “Those are the payoff logs for the police and the judges.”

We began stuffing the heavy books into the bag frantically.

I reached for the bottom shelf, pulling out a thick folder labeled Operation Chicago.

It was the file on my mother. The nurse who had saved me.

I shoved it into the bag, zipping it shut.

“We have it,” I said, throwing the heavy strap over my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

But as we turned back toward the floor grate, the heavy mahogany doors of the study burst open.

The lights flipped on, blinding us.

Standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on an ornate wooden cane, was Vincent Bellini.

Flanking him were two massive bodyguards, their assault rifles raised and pointed directly at us.

“I knew you would try for the vault,” Vincent rasped, a cruel, triumphant smile stretching across his pale face.

Vanessa froze, raising her hands in the air.

I stood my ground, my hand hovering near the pistol tucked into my waistband, though I knew I could never draw it fast enough.

“You’re a disappointment, Vanessa,” Vincent wheezed, shuffling slowly into the room. “Betraying your own blood for a bastard child.”

“You betrayed this family a long time ago, Father,” Vanessa spat back, her voice shaking but defiant.

Vincent ignored her, fixing his cold eyes on me.

“And you,” he sneered. “You think taking those ledgers changes anything? I have a private jet waiting at the airstrip. I’ll be in a non-extradition country before the FBI even opens that bag. And you two... will be buried in the garden.”

He raised a frail hand, gesturing to his guards.

“Kill them,” Vincent ordered.

I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact.

But the gunshot that rang out didn't come from the bodyguards.

The heavy glass window behind Vincent’s desk suddenly shattered inward, raining glass over the floor.

Both bodyguards instantly dropped their rifles, clutching their shoulders as twin sniper rounds took them down in perfect synchronization.

Vincent gasped, stumbling backward in shock.

Through the shattered window, a massive figure climbed into the study.

It was Luca.

He was covered in mud and rain, a suppressed rifle slung across his back, and his dark eyes burning with absolute authority.

He walked slowly toward Vincent, pulling his sidearm.

“The perimeter diversion was for your guards,” Luca said softly, his voice cutting through the ringing silence of the study. “The real assault was always through the window.”

Vincent backed away, his cane trembling.

“You won’t shoot me, boy,” Vincent wheezed, his bravado finally cracking. “I’m a made man. The Commission will hunt you down if you kill a boss.”

Luca smiled—a cold, terrifying smile.

“I’m not going to kill you, Vincent,” Luca said.

He stepped aside.

Climbing through the window right behind him was Anthony Bellini.

Vincent’s face drained of all color. He stared at the son he had tried to murder twenty-five years ago.

“Anthony,” Vincent choked out.

Anthony walked slowly across the glass-covered floor, stopping inches from his father.

He didn’t raise a weapon. He didn’t yell.

He simply reached out and ripped the Bellini family signet ring off Vincent’s trembling finger.

“You’re finished, old man,” Anthony said quietly. “The ledgers are going to the FBI. Your accounts are frozen. Your men are surrendering outside. You die in a federal cage.”

Anthony turned his back on his father. He looked at me, his expression softening completely.

“Do you have the bag, Natalie?” Anthony asked gently.

I nodded, gripping the heavy duffel bag.

“Then let’s go home,” my father said.

As we walked back toward the shattered window, leaving the ruined mafia boss standing alone in the ruins of his empire, I felt the heavy weight of the gold locket resting against my chest.