Chapter 22 - Voices in the Dark
Luca fired twice over the top of the counter without looking. The sharp *crack-crack* of his .45 deafened the enclosed space. A heavy body hit the tile floor with a dull thud, followed by the clatter of a tactical rifle skittering across the grease-resistant mats.
"One down," Luca muttered, his breath calm, his pulse barely elevated. He was in his element—a predator in the dark. "There will be three more in this sweep team."
Before he could pivot toward the pantry door, the heavy oak service door on the far side of the kitchen creaked open.
Luca swung his muzzle toward the sound, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"Hold your fire, Luca," a soft, imperious voice cut through the shadows.
Mrs. Moretti stepped into the red light. She wore her dark cashmere shawl over her shoulders, her silver hair perfectly pinned, her posture as straight and regal as if she were greeting guests at a Sunday luncheon. Behind her stood Marco, holding a combat shotgun at low-ready.
"Mother," Luca exhaled, lowering his weapon an inch. "I told them to take you to the vault."
"The vault is a reinforced coffin if the ventilation is compromised," the matriarch said coolly. "And I have no intention of dying underground while my home is being ransacked by cowards."
Her dark eyes shifted past Luca and landed squarely on me—and on the open black wooden box I was clutching against my chest.
For the first time since I had met her, Mrs. Moretti’s composure fractured. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her skin paper-white in the dim light. She stepped past her son, ignoring the distant sound of gunfire echoing from the north wing, and stopped right in front of me.
Her hand reached out, trembling slightly, toward the antique pocket watch resting on the velvet.
"Where did you get this?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the auxiliary generator trying to kick on.
"A courier delivered it two minutes before the power was cut," I answered, my heart pounding in my throat. "It had my name on it, Mrs. Moretti. And... this."
I reached into the box and handed her the black-and-white photograph.
Mrs. Moretti took the photograph. Her fingers traced the silhouette of the dark-haired man holding the infant. When she turned it over and read the faded inscription in the red emergency light, a single, silent tear escaped her eye and tracked down the fine lines of her cheek.
"Lorenzo," she murmured.
"Who was he, Mother?" Luca demanded, stepping closer, his eyes darting between the kitchen door and the photograph. "The letter calls him your brother. But the Moretti line had no surviving uncles. Who is he?"
Mrs. Moretti closed her eyes for a brief, agonizing second. When she opened them, the sorrow was gone, replaced by an ancient, iron resolve.
"He was not a Moretti by blood," she said, her voice steadying. "He was Lorenzo Carbone. The last true Prince of the Old Syndicate. The man who owned the bloodline charter before the five families divided the city."
She looked directly into my eyes, her hand reaching up to touch my cheek with overwhelming tenderness.
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"And he was my sworn brother in blood. Elena... your father didn't die in an accident. He was hunted down by the Council because he chose to erase your name from the registry to keep you alive."
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