Chapter 6 - The Visitor from the Past“Stay with Lily,” Luca told me, his hand resting briefly, reassuringly, on my shoulder for a fraction of a second before he turned toward the door.
“Be careful,” I said, my voice barely louder than the crackling fire.
He gave me a single, hard nod, pulled the door open, and vanished into the dimly lit hallway.
The next ten minutes were the longest of my life. I knelt beside Lily, who had woken up rubbing her eyes, startled by the muffled thud of footsteps and the distant hum of the security alarms.
“Claire? What’s happening?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“Nothing to worry about, sweetheart,” I lied, pulling her close and holding her tight against my chest. “Your father is just checking on the gates. The snow must tripped the sensors.”
We waited in silence, listening to the muffled sounds of boots on the stone stairs below, the sharp bark of orders, and then—faintly—the dull thud of a heavy door slamming shut down in the foyer.
Then, footsteps approached the third-floor landing. Heavy, deliberate footsteps.
My muscles tensed. I reached instinctively for the heavy brass fireplace poker leaning against the hearth, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The brass door handle turned slowly.
The heavy oak door swung open.
It wasn't Luca.
It was a tall, silver-haired man in an expensive Italian wool overcoat covered in melting snow. His face was sharp, lined with age and absolute ruthlessness, and his cold, gray eyes swept over the room before landing directly on me.
Behind him stood Daniel, his gun still holstered, but his hand resting ominously close to his side, jaw clenched in barely contained rage.
“Well,” the silver-haired man said, his voice smooth, cultured, and dripping with thinly veiled menace. “So this is the new help. I must say, Moretti’s tastes have improved since Clara passed. You look far more decorative than the last one.”
I stood up slowly, stepping in front of Lily to shield her. “Who are you? You have no right to be up here.”
The man let out a dry, chilling laugh. He stepped further into the room, shaking the melting snow from his shoulders onto the Persian rug.
“My name is Victor Moretti,” the man said smoothly. “Luca’s uncle. And the man who built the foundation of this syndicate before my ungrateful nephew decided he could run it all by himself.”
My blood ran cold.
Victor Moretti. The name was whispered in the darkest corners of the Chicago underworld—a man exiled to Europe a decade ago after a brutal power struggle within the syndicate, rumored to be even more ruthless, more calculating, and more violent than Luca himself.
“Luca isn't here,” I said, keeping my voice level, though my hands were shaking. “Leave the property immediately, or security will escort you out.”
Victor smiled—a thin, ugly slash across his pale face.
“Security?” He glanced back at Daniel with a mocking smirk. “Daniel and I go back a long way, young lady. He knows who really signs the paychecks when the dust settles.”
Daniel didn't look at Victor. He looked at me, his eyes dark with a silent message: Play along. I've got a plan.
“Uncle Victor,” a cold, flat voice cut through the air from the doorway.
Victor froze.
Luca stepped out of the shadow of the hallway. He wasn't holding his gun anymore, but the way he moved—slow, deliberate, like a panther stepping out of the brush—was infinitely more terrifying.
“You look older,” Luca said, stopping five paces away from his uncle. “And remarkably foolish for a man who managed to survive ten years in exile.”
Victor turned around, his smile hardening into a mask of pure ice. “Is that any way to greet your blood, Luca? After all, I’m the one who laid the groundwork for every shipping route and political bribe you're currently sitting on.”
“You were banished because you couldn't keep your hands out of the family treasury and your temper out of the streets,” Luca said, his voice dropping into that lethal, quiet register. “And tonight, you violated the perimeter of my home while my daughter was sleeping upstairs. That wasn't a family visit, Victor. That was a suicide note.”
Victor let out a low chuckle, stepping closer. “You think you’re untouchable now, don't you? You got rid of Vanessa. You think you can play suburban father in a seaside cottage with a housekeeper.”
He pointed a manicured finger directly at me.
“You think this little domestic fantasy will protect you? The Commission is meeting on Friday, Luca. And they aren't going to let a sentimental fool run the Chicago ports any longer. I’m back. And I’m taking back what’s mine.”
May you like
Luca didn't blink. He didn't raise his voice.
He simply took two steps forward, closed the distance between them, and drove his fist straight into Victor Moretti’s jaw with the force of a falling anvil.
Related Stories
