THE MAFIA BOSS CAME HOME TO FIND HIS MAID DRAGGING HIS MOTHER’S EMPTY WHEELCHAIR THROUGH THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY—THEN HE NOTICED THE BLOOD SOAKING THROUGH HER WHITE SLEEVE. “Get that filthy chair out of here before Luca sees it.” Vanessa Bellini’s voice followed me across the mar
The phone line went dead.
Luca didn't shout. He didn't throw the phone. He just slowly lowered it from his ear, his face turning into a mask of terrifying, cold precision.
“They took her,” I whispered, panic rising in my throat. “I hid her in the sewing room, I swear I did. I locked the door.”
“Vanessa has master keys to this house,” Luca said quietly. His voice didn't shake. It was perfectly level. “She must have found her while I was talking to you in the foyer.”
He didn't wait for me to explain further. He turned on his heel and strode back toward the grand staircase.
I followed, my injured arm throbbing with every step.
When we reached the top of the stairs, I looked down at the foyer.
The engagement party was still happening. Twenty-eight prominent members of Chicago society were sipping champagne and discussing real estate, completely unaware that a kidnapping had just taken place upstairs.
But Vanessa was gone.
“Where did she go?” I asked, scanning the room.
“She doesn't matter right now,” Luca said, taking the stairs two at a time. “My mother matters.”
We reached the front doors. Marcus, the massive, broad-shouldered head of security, was standing just inside, looking grim.
“The transport van?” Luca demanded.
“Gone, boss,” Marcus said tightly. “They punched it the second the call dropped. I sent two cars after them, but they vanished into city traffic.”
“Did you get a license plate?”
“It was a ghost plate. Unregistered.” Marcus hesitated. “But I saw the logo on the side of the van before it pulled away.”
“What was it?”
“St. Jude’s Arch. It’s a private psychiatric facility upstate. Very exclusive. Very discreet.”
Luca’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
“She isn't sending my mother to rehabilitation. She’s committing her.”
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
Mrs. Moretti was seventy-two. She had suffered a mild stroke a year ago, which confined her to the wheelchair, but her mind was perfectly sharp. If Vanessa committed her to a secure psychiatric facility, she could have her declared legally incompetent.
And if Luca’s mother was incompetent, her massive voting shares in the Moretti family trust would default to Luca.
Or, upon their marriage, to his wife.
“She’s making a power play,” Luca muttered, coming to the exact same conclusion. “Before the wedding.”
He looked at Marcus.
“Get the SUV. We’re going to St. Jude’s.”
“Boss,” Marcus warned gently. “You have thirty guests in your dining room. The mayor is sitting next to your uncle. If you leave now, without Vanessa, it’s going to raise questions you aren't ready to answer.”
“I don't care about the mayor. Bring the car.”
Marcus nodded and hurried out the door.
Luca turned to me. He looked at my pale face, my ruined white sleeve, and the sheer terror in my eyes.
“You’re coming with me, Sophie,” he said.
“Me? Why?”
“Because my mother trusted you enough to hide her. And because she apologized to you on that phone call.” His dark eyes narrowed slightly. “She knows something about Vanessa that involves you. And I need to know what it is.”
Ten minutes later, we were speeding north on the interstate in a black, armored SUV. Marcus was driving. Luca sat in the back with me. The silence in the car was suffocating.
I pressed my good hand against my injured arm, trying to stop the bleeding.
Luca noticed. He opened a compartment between the seats, pulled out a pristine white linen handkerchief, and handed it to me.
“Wrap it tight.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
We drove for forty minutes into the dark, wooded hills outside the city. St. Jude’s Arch loomed at the end of a long, winding driveway. It didn't look like a hospital. It looked like a fortress. High stone walls, iron gates, and minimal lighting.
Marcus pulled the SUV right up to the heavy security gate.
He rolled down the window and flashed a badge at the guard. “Luca Moretti to see his mother.”
The guard looked nervous. “I’m sorry, sir. We don't have a patient by that name.”
Luca didn't wait. He threw open the back door, stepped out into the freezing night air, and walked straight up to the guard booth.
“A private transport arrived here fifteen minutes ago,” Luca said, his voice low and incredibly dangerous. “It was carrying an elderly woman in a wheelchair. She is my mother. Open the gate, or my men will tear it off its hinges.”
The guard swallowed hard, looking at the two massive SUVs that had just pulled up behind ours, filled with Luca’s soldiers.
He hit the button. The iron gates slowly swung open.
We drove up to the main entrance. Luca strode through the sliding glass doors, ignoring the protests of the night staff. He walked directly to the reception desk.
“Where is she?” Luca demanded of the terrified nurse behind the glass.
“Sir, you can't be here—”
Luca slammed his hand flat on the counter. The loud crack made everyone in the lobby jump.
“I am Luca Moretti. You have my mother. I want her released immediately.”
A tall man in a white coat hurried out of a back office. He looked smooth, polished, and entirely unfazed by Luca’s anger.
“Mr. Moretti. I am Dr. Evans, the chief of staff. Please, lower your voice.”
“Bring me my mother,” Luca ordered.
Dr. Evans adjusted his glasses. “I’m afraid I cannot do that. Maria Moretti was admitted twenty minutes ago under an emergency psychiatric hold. The paperwork was signed by her legal medical proxy.”
Luca froze. “I am her proxy.”
“Not according to this.”
Dr. Evans slid a manila folder across the counter.
Luca opened it. I peeked around his arm.
It was a legally binding medical power of attorney. Signed and notarized. Transferring all of Mrs. Moretti’s medical and financial decisions to Vanessa Bellini.
And at the bottom of the page, in shaky, terrified handwriting, was Mrs. Moretti’s signature.
“She was forced to sign this,” Luca said, his voice deadly quiet.
“That is an accusation for the courts,” Dr. Evans said smoothly. “Until a judge overturns this document, Miss Bellini has full authority. And Miss Bellini has specifically instructed us that you are not to have contact with the patient. She feels your presence exacerbates your mother’s delusions.”
Luca stared at the doctor. The realization of Vanessa’s trap was settling in.
If he used force to take his mother out of a hospital, Vanessa would call the police. She would claim Luca was violent and unstable. She would use it to challenge his leadership of the family.
Vanessa had outmaneuvered him beautifully.
Luca slowly closed the folder.
“I want to see her. Five minutes. Supervised. Or I buy this hospital tomorrow and fire every single person in this building.”
Dr. Evans hesitated. He looked at the hard, unyielding determination in Luca’s eyes.
“Five minutes,” the doctor conceded. “But I must remain in the room.”
Dr. Evans led us down a long, sterile corridor to a heavy metal door at the end of the hall. The locked ward.
He unlocked it and pushed it open.
The room was small, stark white, and smelled of antiseptic.
Mrs. Moretti was sitting in a new, cheap wheelchair by the window, staring out into the darkness. She looked small, frail, and utterly exhausted.
“Mother,” Luca said softly, stepping into the room.
She turned. When she saw him, her eyes filled with tears, but she didn't look relieved. She looked terrified.
“Luca,” she whispered. “You shouldn't have come. She knows you're here.”
“I’m taking you home,” Luca promised, kneeling beside her chair.
“You can't,” she said, her voice shaking. “She showed me the papers, Luca. If you take me, she’ll go to the federal prosecutor. She has the ledgers.”
Luca went completely still.
The ledgers. The physical books detailing three generations of Moretti family crimes, payoffs, and hits. They were supposed to be locked in a vault only Luca and his mother knew about.
“How did she get them?” Luca asked, his voice barely a breath.
Mrs. Moretti looked past her son. She looked directly at me.
“I’m sorry, Sophie,” Mrs. Moretti cried softly. “I didn't know who she was when I hired you.”
I frowned, stepping closer. “When you hired me? Mrs. Moretti, the agency sent me.”
“There was no agency,” the old woman wept. “Vanessa picked you, Sophie. Because she knows who your father is.”
The room spun.
“My father died when I was a baby,” I said, my voice trembling.
Mrs. Moretti shook her head, tears spilling down her wrinkled cheeks.
“No, sweetheart. Your father didn't die. He went into witness protection. Thirty years ago, your father was the accountant who testified against Luca’s father.”
