Chapter 12 - An Uninvited Guest
The mention of Marco Torrisi changed the entire atmosphere of the estate.
Mrs. Moretti didn’t drop her knitting when Luca brought it up that evening, but her hands froze. Her knuckles turned white against the crimson wool. Marco had been Luca’s father's underboss, a ruthless strategist who favored quiet poison and behind-the-scenes betrayal over open street warfare. When he vanished, the empire had consolidated under the elder Moretti without opposition.
"If Marco is breathing," Mrs. Moretti said, her voice unusually flat, "he didn't survive fifteen years in hiding just to withdraw pocket change. He’s here for the seat you sit on, Luca."
We didn't have to wait long for confirmation.
Two nights later, the Chicago Civic Foundation held its annual winter gala at the Drake Hotel. Under normal circumstances, Luca would have sent a polite decline with a seven-figure donation check. But this year, the Moretti name was on the legal registry of trustees, and skipping the event would signal weakness to the dozens of mid-level capos currently watching the aftermath of the Bellini downfall.
I stood beside Luca in the grand ballroom, wearing a midnight-blue silk gown that was tailored for elegance, yet designed with a concealed holster beneath the left ribcage. Over the past months, Luca had made sure I was not only his sharpest auditor, but also capable of defending myself if the world outside turned feral.
"Stay within arm's reach," Luca whispered, his hand resting warm and possessive at the small of my back as we moved through the glittering crowd of senators, judges, and high-society patrons.
"Always," I murmured.
Then the music stopped.
Not abruptly, but winding down as a ripple of hushed whispers spread across the ballroom floor. Near the grand archway of the Gold Coast entrance, a man strode in. He wasn't escorted by security; rather, the hotel’s general manager was personally walking half a pace behind him with an expression of sheer terror.
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The man had silver hair, sharp features carved from marble, and a cane topped with a polished bronze hawk. But it wasn't the man who drew the gasps of the room.
Walking beside him, wrapped in an emerald fur stole and dripping with diamonds she had no legal right to own, was Vanessa Bellini.
