Luca slowly released Marcus’s hair, letting the traitor's head fall back onto the cold stone.
The gravity of the situation settled over the room like a shroud.
Marcus hadn't just betrayed the family. He had used Luca’s mother as a mule.
The medical transport wasn't just a convenient way for Vanessa to remove an obstacle; Marcus had hijacked her plan, turning the wheelchair into a moving vault to smuggle the syndicate's most dangerous secrets right through the front gates, past thirty VIP guests and Luca himself.
And now, Mrs. Moretti was locked in a high-security psychiatric ward, completely unaware that she was sitting on a bomb.
“He played us both,” Vanessa whispered, lowering her smoking revolver. The arrogant, untouchable fiancée was gone, replaced by a woman realizing she was standing on the gallows.
“If New York gets those ledgers, they won't just kill you, Luca. They’ll kill me for trying to usurp the throne. They leave no loose ends.”
Luca stood up, wiping the blood from his brow with the back of his hand. He didn't look at Vanessa. He didn't look at the bleeding man on the floor.
He looked at me.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly, noticing how tightly I was clutching my injured arm.
“I’m fine,” I lied, my voice shaking. “We have to get her out. If the transport drivers figure out what’s in the chair...”
“They aren't transport drivers,” Marcus groaned from the floor, a cruel smile twisting his pale face. “They’re New York soldiers. They’re driving the chair straight to a private airfield in Gary, Indiana. As soon as the ink dries on the commitment papers, they swap the chair, put her in a padded cell, and fly the ledgers to Manhattan.”
Luca’s expression hardened into something carved from granite.
“They don't have the ledgers yet. She’s still at St. Jude’s.”
“You can't get in,” Vanessa argued, stepping closer. “I signed the power of attorney. Dr. Evans won't let you within a hundred yards of her room, and he has armed guards at every door.”
Luca finally turned his terrifying gaze on her.
“Then you are going to walk in there and revoke it.”
Vanessa flinched. “He won't let me revoke it at 1:00 AM! He’ll know something is wrong. If the New York soldiers are there, they’ll shoot us in the lobby!”
“You created this mess, Vanessa,” Luca said, taking a slow step toward her. “You forged the documents. You terrorized my mother. If you want to survive the night, you are going to get her out of that hospital.”
“And if I refuse?” she challenged, raising her chin defensively.
Luca didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
“Then I leave you here in the cellar with Marcus. When New York realizes they don't have the ledgers, they will trace the transport back to you. I won't have to lift a finger.”
Vanessa stared at him, the color completely draining from her face. She knew he was telling the truth.
“Fine,” she spat. “But I’m not driving with him.” She pointed a trembling finger at Marcus.
“He stays here,” Luca said. He reached down and pulled Marcus’s zip-ties from his security belt, securing the traitor's hands and feet brutally tight. “When I get back, I’ll deal with you.”
Luca grabbed Marcus’s suppressed pistol from the floor, checked the magazine, and tucked it into the waistband of his ruined suit pants.
“Let’s go,” Luca ordered.
We left Marcus bleeding in the cellar and hurried up the back stairs. The engagement party was winding down, faint jazz music drifting through the walls. We slipped out the side door, completely unseen by the remaining guests.
We piled into a discreet black sedan parked in the staff lot. Luca drove. Vanessa sat in the passenger seat, gripping her pearl-handled revolver in her lap. I sat in the back, shivering in my bloodstained uniform.
The drive back to St. Jude’s Arch was a blur of neon lights and dark highway. No one spoke. The tension in the car was tight enough to snap.
We pulled up to the high iron gates of the psychiatric facility.
The guard booth was empty. The gates were hanging wide open.
“Something’s wrong,” Luca murmured, slowing the car.
He drove cautiously up the winding driveway. The imposing stone facade of the hospital loomed in the darkness. There were no lights on in the main lobby. The sliding glass doors were shattered, glittering on the pavement like ice.
“They didn't wait,” Vanessa whispered, genuine terror threading her voice. “New York didn't wait for the ink to dry. They came for the chair.”
Luca slammed the car into park and killed the headlights. He drew his pistol and turned to me in the backseat.
“Stay in the car. Keep your head down. Do not move.”
“No,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.
Luca frowned. “Sophie, they are armed soldiers. This isn't a game.”
“Your mother trusted me,” I said, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. “She hid with me. And she knows my father. If she’s in there, and she’s frightened, she won't go with you if Vanessa is standing next to you. She thinks Vanessa is the enemy.”
Luca stared at me for a long second. He knew I was right. His mother was terrified of Vanessa. If we needed to move fast, we needed someone she trusted implicitly.
“Stay behind me,” Luca ordered.
We got out of the car. The crunch of glass under our shoes echoed loudly in the dead silence of the night as we stepped through the ruined lobby doors.
The reception desk was deserted. A phone was dangling off the hook, a dial tone buzzing faintly in the quiet room.
There were no bodies. No blood. Just an eerie, violent emptiness.
“They must be in the locked ward,” Vanessa whispered, pointing her gun toward the long, dark corridor.
Luca took the lead, moving with practiced, silent grace. We crept down the hallway, the smell of antiseptic heavy in the air.
We reached the heavy metal door of the locked ward.
It was hanging off its hinges, the electronic lock completely blown out by a shotgun blast.
Luca peered inside, leading with his pistol.
He stepped into the ward. I followed closely behind, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The ward was a long hallway with six patient rooms. Five of the doors were standing open, the rooms empty.
At the very end of the hall, the door to Mrs. Moretti’s room was closed.
A faint light spilled out from underneath it.
Luca pressed himself against the wall next to the door. He held up three fingers, silently counting down.
Three.
Two.
One.
He kicked the door open, sweeping into the room, his gun raised.
Vanessa followed, her revolver aimed.
I stepped into the doorway a second later.
The room was destroyed. The bed was flipped. The cheap furniture was smashed into pieces.
In the center of the room, the new wheelchair Vanessa had bought sat completely dismantled. The leather seat cushion had been slashed open, white foam spilling out onto the linoleum floor.
The ledgers were gone.
And so was Mrs. Moretti.
“They took her,” Vanessa gasped, lowering her gun. “They took the books and they took your mother to ensure your silence.”
Luca stood in the center of the ruined room, his eyes scanning the destruction. The cold, calculated mafia boss looked momentarily completely broken. He had lost his father’s empire, and he had lost his mother.
I stood in the doorway, staring at the slashed wheelchair.
Something didn't make sense.
I looked at the flipped bed. I looked at the small, barred window.
Then, my eyes drifted to the corner of the room, where Mrs. Moretti’s belongings had been carelessly tossed.
Her favorite blue cardigan was lying in a heap on the floor.
But something was poking out of the pocket. A small, white corner of a piece of paper.
I walked over, ignoring the danger, and knelt down.
I pulled the paper from the pocket.
It was a Polaroid photograph.
The same one Mrs. Moretti had shown us earlier. The picture of Vincenzo Moretti and my father, Arthur Vance.
But this time, I turned it over.
Written on the back, in shaky, terrified cursive, were three words:
The Linen Closet.
I stared at the back of the photograph, the shaky cursive letters blurring together.
The Linen Closet.
