Chapter 30 LUCA #2
Adrian steps closer to the desk and brings up the live security feed on the screen. The river cameras flicker, then one picture freezes.
My private dock. Empty an hour ago.
Now not empty.
Three black boats. With no lights. Men moving in pairs across the rocks, already past the tripwires that should have set off every bell in the yard.
"Luca," Adrian points straight at the screen. "Look by the water."
"Tell me that is our supply shipment arriving five hours early," Matteo groans, burying his face in his hands.
"That is not a supply boat," Adrian pulls his gun from his holster with a clean snap.
I look.
Bellini's voice stays soft, almost kind. "While we were chatting, my boys took a walk. Your south approach is very pretty at night. You should invest in better motion lights. Or better friends."
Matteo stops pacing. "No. No, no. Adrian, tell me that's a drill."
"It's not a drill." Adrian brings the radio to his lips and barks rapid orders. "Men on the water gate. Move now. Cut them off."
Matteo racks the slide of his own pistol. "I knew I should have stayed in bed with a hot espresso."
Alarms start somewhere deep in the house, delayed by the seconds we spent listening to an old man preen.
Bellini hums, pleased. "I told you it was a final move. You pulled your eyes to the smoke. I walked through the door you left open."
Cold, sharp venom bleeds through my voice. "If you touch a single hair on anyone in this house, I will drag you to hell myself. I will end your fucking line. Not the business. The name. Every member, every ledger, every goddamn grave marker."
"Big promises from a man who thinks a guest can run his household better than he can." A pause. Paper rustles on his end, smooth and deliberate. "Check your foyer, Luca. Gift delivery. Handle with care."
The line dies.
For half a second nobody moves. Then the office door slams open again and Enzo fills the frame, gun already drawn, face white under the hall light.
"Foyer," he pants. "You need to see the foyer. Right now."
We run.
The main hall smells like wet stone and gun oil. Two of our men are down on the marble, breathing but not upright. The front doors hang open to the night. On the long table where Nonna leaves mail and keys sits a black box, unmarked, the size of a briefcase.
Adrian runs a quick scanner over the top of the case. "No wires. No signal. Could still have a bomb inside."
Matteo takes a cautious step behind a marble pillar. "Then let me back up three paces because my suit is brand new."
My throat is tight as a noose. "Open the fucking box."
Matteo looks at me like I've lost my mind. "Or we throw it in the ocean and move to a nice neutral country that sells good wine and bad decisions."
I step right up to the wood table. "Just pop the latch, Adrian!"
Adrian cuts the seal. Lifts the lid.
Inside, nestled on dark cloth, rests Nora's gold link bracelet. The one she brought from London. The clasp is snapped. Under it lies a photo printed on thick paper.
Nora asleep in the my room, timestamped eleven minutes ago, a gloved hand hovering inches above her hair.
And under the photo, in the same neat Italian hand from the warehouse note:
You looked at the wrong fire.
Matteo clutches his chest, breath hitching. "No. She is safe. Luca, we had two guards stationed right down the hall."
Adrian charges for the stairs, barking orders into his radio. I bolt past him, taking three steps at a stride, Matteo swearing right behind my heels.
I left the broken bracelet behind on the table, but the picture burns in my skull with every flight of stairs we climb.
We hit the second-floor corridor at a dead sprint. The heavy scent of copper and burned powder hangs in the hallway.
Two masked Bellini men sprawl dead across the threshold of Nora's bedroom, their blood pooling dark over the pale runner rug.
Standing calmly right in front of the door, holding a smoking twin-barrel shotgun, is my Nonna. She nudges one corpse with the toe of her black shoe.
Nonna wipes soot off her apron with one hand. "They made too much noise near the stairs. I was proofing my focaccia."
Beyond her, the bedroom door swings open wider with a soft creak. Nora appears in the frame, rubbing her eyes with the back of her wrist, her hair tangled from sleep.
She stops dead on the threshold. Her bare feet freeze inches from the fresh blood soaking the runner rug. She blinks against the harsh hallway light, taking in the two masked bodies, the smoking shotgun in Nonna's hands, and the four of us standing with our weapons out.
Nora crosses her arms over her chest, her voice rough with sleep. "I leave you people alone for two hours. Two hours. And you manage to turn the upstairs hallway into a goddamn shooting gallery."
Matteo lets out a wheeze and lowers his gun. "She lives. And her first instinct is verbal violence. Nature is healing."
I close the distance between us in three long strides, my hand reaching for her shoulder before I can stop myself. "Are you hurt?"
She looks up at me, dark circles under her eyes, but her gaze holds steady and cold. "I'm fine, Luca. Just irritated that your houseguests don't know how to knock."