Chapter 7 - Secrets of the Fourth Floor
The fourth floor of the Moretti estate was entirely off-limits to everyone except Luca and Dominic. When I twisted the heavy brass key into the old iron lock of the archive room door, the mechanism gave a loud, resonant click that echoed down the empty corridor.
I pushed the door open. A thick cloud of dust swirled into the dim light filtering through high, grimy windows.
It wasn't just a room; it was a museum of the Chicago underworld.
Rows of towering oak bookshelves stretched into the shadows, packed with leather-bound ledgers, rusted lockboxes, and stacks of black-and-white photographs dating back to the 1970s. In the center of the room sat a massive wooden restoration table lit by a single adjustable green-shaded desk lamp.
I stepped inside, my footsteps muffled by a thick Persian rug. My mission from Luca was simple: locate any documentation concerning Daniel Bellini’s architectural firm and the financial transactions surrounding the South Side shipping docks from eighteen years ago.
For two hours, I combed through box after box.
I found shipping manifests for imported whiskey, blueprints for abandoned warehouses along the river, and handwritten expense reports detailing payoffs to city councilmen. It was a fascinating, terrifying window into the machinery that kept the Moretti syndicate operating at the top of the Chicago food chain.
Around noon, the door clicked open.
Luca walked in, carrying a fresh cup of coffee and a ham sandwich on rye paper. He had removed his suit jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt to reveal the strong, corded muscles of his forearms.
"Finding anything useful?" Luca asked, setting the food down on the restoration table.
"Lots of ledgers, but nothing specific about the Bellini transfer yet," I said, wiping a smudge of dust off my forehead with the back of my hand. "Although I did find a record of my father's old hospital receiving a massive anonymous donation in 2012 that kept their pediatric ward open for three years."
Luca paused, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. He looked at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "St. Jude's?"
"Yes," I nodded. "The administration always told us it came from a private philanthropic fund, but looking at the signature on this manifest..." I pointed to a faded ink stamp on the bottom of a shipping ledger. "It matches the corporate seal of Moretti Logistics."
Luca let out a slow breath, setting the mug down. "My father was a ruthless man in business, Emma, but he wasn't entirely heartless. He knew how many families depended on the hospitals and clinics in the districts we controlled. He just... never liked taking credit for it."
"Like father, like son," I muttered before I could stop myself.
Luca raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Are you comparing me to my father, Emma? Because twenty-four hours ago, you were calling me an impossible patient and refusing to throw away his clothes."
"Twenty-four hours ago, I thought you were just another arrogant billionaire who only cared about photo ops and high-society brides," I retorted smoothly, crossing my arms over my apron.
Luca let out a low, genuine laugh—a sound so warm and rich that it completely transformed the austere atmosphere of the dusty archive room.
"Fair enough," he murmured, stepping closer to the table.
As he leaned over to inspect a stack of old blueprints, his shoulder brushed gently against mine. The contact sent an unexpected, electric jolt straight up my arm. I froze, suddenly acutely aware of how close we were standing in the quiet, secluded room.
Luca stopped moving, too. He turned his head slowly, looking down at me. The air between us suddenly felt very thin.
Before either of us could say anything, a sharp, urgent knock rattled the archive door.
Dominic pushed his way into the room without waiting for an invitation, his face grim.
"Boss," Dominic said, panting slightly. "We have a serious problem."
Luca stepped back instantly, his professional mask sliding back into place with practiced precision. "What is it, Dominic?"
"Marco Rossi didn't just walk out of here angry this morning," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a tense whisper. "He went straight to the North Side syndicate heads. He’s telling them that you're losing your grip, that you're handing syndicate assets over to outsider civilians to appease a dead man's ghost."
Luca’s jaw hardened. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, calculating fury of a mafia boss whose authority was being challenged.
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"And?" Luca asked coldly.
"They're calling an emergency tribunal at the warehouse on 22nd Street tonight," Dominic replied. "They want a vote of no confidence. If you don't show up and assert your dominance, they're going to move to strip you of your title by midnight."
