Chapter 10 - THE PACKAGE AT THE GATE"Hold your position, Marko," Luca commanded instantly, his protective instincts flaring into overdrive as he shoved the Polaroid into his pocket and placed a steadying hand on his daughter's arm. "Do not engage until I get upstairs."
"Dad, wait—what if it’s another trap?" Emily asked, her breath catching in her throat as she gripped his sleeve.
"If it’s a trap, they picked the wrong house," Luca said coldly, drawing his service weapon with fluid, practiced ease. "Stay right here in the vault, Em. Lock the biometric door behind me."
"No way," Emily shook her head fiercely, her stubborn Moretti blood shining in her eyes. "I’m not hiding in a basement while my father walks into gunfire. I'm coming with you."
Luca looked at her for a second, saw the absolute determination carved into her face, and nodded. "Fine. Stay behind me. Always."
Together, they hurried up the basement stairs and stepped into the grand, sunlit foyer of the Maple Street house.
Through the tall front windows, they could see Marko and two tactical operatives cautiously approaching a heavy, unmarked black sedan idling by the snow-covered front gates. The vehicle’s tail lights blinked twice before it slowly accelerated down the street, disappearing into the swirling winter blizzard.
Marko walked up to the iron gate, bent down, and picked up a heavy, wax-sealed manila envelope resting on the snow.
A minute later, Marko burst through the front door, shaking the snow off his shoulders.
"Boss," Marko said, holding out the heavy envelope. "There was nothing else in the car. Just this. Addressed directly to you."
Luca took the envelope. Across the front, written in bold, unsteady handwriting that looked decades old, were three simple words:
TO LUCA MORETTI.
Luca sliced open the wax seal with his thumb and slid out the contents.
A single sheet of heavy parchment paper dropped onto the entryway table. Along with it tumbled a small, silver military dog tag on a rusted chain.
Luca picked up the dog tag. He turned it over, reading the stamped letters:
VANCE, DAVID J. — USMC / OGA.
And beneath the dog tag, the handwritten letter read:
“Luca. If you’re reading this, Eleanor’s ledger has finally surfaced. Which means the wolves are still circling. But David didn't die thirty years ago, my friend. He went deep underground to protect the one thing the syndicate wanted more than the money... your daughter.”
Luca stopped breathing.
Emily stared at her father, her eyes wide with shock. "My... my daughter? What does that mean?!"
Before Luca could answer, the front doorbell chimed.
Ding-dong.
Slowly, deliberately, Luca walked to the front door, raised his pistol, and pulled the heavy wood open.
Standing on the snowy porch wasn't an assassin.
It was an elderly, silver-haired man wearing a weathered trench coat, leaning heavily on a cane, with scars tracing the entire left side of his face.
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The man looked up at Luca Moretti with tired, knowing eyes, and offered a faint, melancholy smile.
"Hello, Luca," the old man rasped. "It’s been a long time."
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