Chapter 8 - The Final Stitch
The mansion was completely silent when we slipped through the back garden gates an hour later. The police hadn't arrived here yet. The security team, still groggy from Vanessa's spiked champagne, were tied up in the staff quarters—courtesy of Marco, before he betrayed us. We entered through the kitchen. The sheer normalcy of the gleaming stainless-steel counters felt utterly bizarre after the violence of the penthouse. "Stay behind me," Luca whispered, his gun drawn as we moved through the dark hallways. We made our way to the grand dining room. The table was still perfectly set for the engagement dinner that never happened. The crystal glasses sparkled in the moonlight filtering through the windows. And lying exactly where Luca had dropped it hours ago, draped over the back of a mahogany chair, was Antonio Moretti's dark charcoal suit. Luca holstered his weapon and grabbed the jacket. He laid it flat on the long dining table. I stood beside him, holding my breath. He reached inside, finding the slit Vanessa had cut near the inner pocket. "Ferraro said the proof was written on the lining itself," Luca muttered, carefully pulling the dark silk lining outward. It was black. Perfectly smooth. Nothing was written on it. No ink. No hidden compartments. "I don't see anything," I whispered, panic rising. "Did Vanessa take it?" Luca ran his fingers over the silk, his brow furrowed in concentration. He traced the seam, the lapel, the torn edge. Then, his hand stopped. He turned the jacket over, looking at the intricate hand-stitching along the inner collar. The golden initials. A.M. "Emma," Luca said softly. "Look at the thread." I leaned in close. The gold thread used for the initials was slightly thicker than normal embroidery thread. But it wasn't just the initials. The stitching continued down the inside seam of the jacket. It was so perfectly blended into the dark fabric that it was almost invisible unless you looked for it. "It's not just a seam," Luca realized, his voice filled with awe. "It's code." I stared at it. The stitches were uneven. Long stitch, short stitch, gap. Long stitch, short stitch. "Morse code," I breathed. "Ferraro was a tailor," Luca said, his eyes scanning the length of the jacket. "He stitched the proof into the very fabric of my father's last suit. The one place nobody would think to look for a confession." "What does it say?" I asked. Luca traced the stitches with his fingertip, translating the long and short pulls of the thread. "Donato Bellini... ordered St. Jude fire... paid Captain Miller fifty thousand... offshore account 4489..." Luca read, his voice growing stronger with every word. "It's all here. The exact dates, the account numbers, the names of the corrupt cops. It's a full confession stitched into the seam." Relief washed over me so powerfully my knees almost buckled. We had it. We had the proof to destroy Vanessa's family and avenge my brother. "Well, isn't that poetic." The voice came from the doorway. We both spun around. Standing in the entrance to the dining room, holding a suppressed pistol, was Marco. He was alone. His suit was wrinkled, his face pale, but his aim was perfectly steady. "Put the jacket down, Boss," Marco said softly. Luca didn't move. He stood in front of the table, shielding the suit with his body. "You sold out your family for Vanessa?" Luca asked, his voice dripping with disgust. "I sold out for survival, Luca," Marco corrected. "Vanessa's family has the Commission's backing. You were going to tear the whole syndicate apart over a dead bastard child and a maid. It's bad business." "She murdered twelve innocent children," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "And she pays very well to keep it quiet," Marco shrugged. "Toss the jacket over here. And then get on your knees. Both of you." Luca slowly raised his hands. But his eyes were calculating. Evaluating the distance. The angle. "Marco," Luca said calmly. "If you pull that trigger, you will never leave this room alive. You know I have loyalists. They will hunt you to the ends of the earth." "I'll take my chances," Marco sneered. He raised the gun, aiming directly at my head. "The Bellini girl dies first. No heir, no problem." My breath hitched. I closed my eyes. CRASH. A heavy, terrifying sound exploded from the far side of the room. Marco yelled in shock, spinning toward the noise, firing wildly into the dark corner. Luca didn't hesitate. He launched himself across the dining table, tackling Marco to the marble floor. The gun skittered away, sliding under a heavy mahogany cabinet. I opened my eyes, gasping for air. Standing by the shattered remains of a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror, holding a heavy brass candlestick, was my Aunt Rose. She was breathing heavily, her hospital gown torn, her bare feet bleeding on the glass. She had snuck into the house from the ambulance. "You don't touch my daughter," Rose hissed at the man on the floor. Luca dragged Marco up by the collar, slamming him brutally against the wall. He drove his fist into Marco's stomach, then delivered a crushing blow to his jaw. Marco collapsed, completely unconscious. Luca stood over him, chest heaving. He looked at Rose, then at me. "Is everyone okay?" he asked, his voice rough. "We're okay," I cried, running to Rose and hugging her tightly. She dropped the candlestick, holding me as she had when I was a little girl. Luca walked over to the table and picked up his father's jacket. He folded it carefully over his arm. He looked at the unconscious traitor on the floor, then at the two women who had survived thirty years of mafia terror. "It's over," Luca said, his dark eyes meeting mine. "The Commission gets the jacket tomorrow. We burn the Bellini name to ashes." He walked toward us, stopping just inches from me. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping a tear from my cheek. "And then," Luca whispered, "we rebuild."
