Chapter 3 - The Paper Trail in the Shadows
The study smelled of aged leather, dried paper, and the bitter tang of Luca’s unsweetened espresso.
A single green banker’s lamp cast a sickly halo of light over the polished surface of the mahogany desk.
Daniel, the head of estate security, stepped into the room with his tablet in hand, his leather jacket squeaking softly in the quiet.
He was a former military contractor who had managed the Moretti family’s perimeter for six years.
He knew better than to offer pleasantries when Luca’s tie was loosened and his cufflinks were placed neatly beside his blotter.
“Who was assigned to the second floor between two and five this afternoon?” Luca asked, without looking up.
Mrs. Carter, who had been summoned moments before, stood near the bookshelves wringing her white apron in her hands.
“Sophie Grant was assigned to the second-floor dressing rooms and the linen closets, Mr. Moretti,” Mrs. Carter answered, her voice trembling slightly.
“Was she assigned to the blue guest room?”
“No, sir. As you stated at dinner, the blue room was locked off for the window installation.”
Luca’s fingers drummed once against the desk.
“And the East Suite?”
Mrs. Carter hesitated, casting an anxious glance toward Daniel before answering.
“Miss Bellini specifically instructed the staff to leave the entire East Suite alone after three-thirty.”
Luca lifted his chin, his dark eyes fixing upon the housekeeper.
“On whose authority?”
“Hers, sir. She said she had an exclusive private fitting for her bridal trousseau and didn’t want the domestic staff tracking dust across the garments.”
“Did you see the designer arrive?”
“No, sir. Miss Bellini said the woman would be arriving through the garden terrace to avoid disturbing the caterers setting up in the main foyer.”
Luca leaned back into his high-backed leather chair, the wood groaning softly under his weight.
“A private fitting through the servant entrance,” he said, letting the absurdity of the statement hang in the air.
He shifted his gaze to Daniel.
“Who crossed the threshold of the east service gate between three and four-thirty?”
Daniel tapped the screen of his tablet, pulling up the encrypted logs from the biometric scanners at the estate perimeter.
“There was only one outside visitor cleared through that gate, boss.”
“Give me the name.”
“Marianne Cole.”
Luca’s eyebrows knitted together in cold contemplation.
“Who is she?”
“She holds credentials as a professional photographer,” Daniel replied, zooming in on a digitized copy of an Illinois driver’s license.
Luca scoffed, a dry, humorless sound.
“The Bellini family already hired three society photographers from New York for the ceremony. Why would Vanessa sneak a local photographer through the garden gate?”
Daniel cleared his throat, shifting his weight uneasily.
“Marianne Cole hasn’t shot a society wedding in over five years, Mr. Moretti.”
The room seemed to grow smaller.
Luca’s eyes locked onto Daniel’s face.
“Then what does she shoot, Daniel?”
“High-asset matrimonial disputes,” Daniel answered bluntly. “Extortion material. Hidden bank transfers, hotel room surveillance, and infidelity cases for elite divorces.”
For five seconds, the only sound in the study was the rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner.
Luca did not move a muscle.
The implication was monstrous, yet entirely within the realm of syndicate warfare.
Vanessa Bellini was not securing a wedding album.
She was assembling a weapon.
“Get her on the line,” Luca commanded softly.
Daniel dialed the private cell number listed in the security registry and placed the phone face-up on the desk blotter, switching it to speaker.
The dial tone rang out three times in the hollow silence of the study.
On the fourth ring, the connection clicked open.
“Cole,” a woman’s guarded voice answered.
Luca leaned forward, speaking directly toward the microphone.
“This is Luca Moretti.”
A sharp gasp caught in the woman’s throat on the other end of the line.
Total silence followed, heavy with the realization of who held the other end of the wire.
“Mr. Moretti,” Marianne Cole said, her voice dropping into a professional, defensive register. “It’s late.”
“You were in my house four hours ago, Miss Cole,” Luca said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Time is an irrelevant luxury for people who trespass on my property.”
“I didn’t trespass,” the woman argued quickly. “I was escorted through the east gate by your fiancée’s personal assistant. I had a legitimate business contract.”
“What was the nature of that contract?”
A prolonged pause stretched over the speaker.
“I think... I think you should discuss that with Miss Bellini, sir. I signed a non-disclosure agreement.”
Luca smiled, though the expression looked more like a snarl on his shadowed face.
“Miss Cole, the woman who hired you owns nothing in this city that I cannot dismantle by sunrise tomorrow. If you value your freedom, your license, and your pulse, you will tell me what you were hired to photograph in my East Suite.”
The line hissed with static as the woman exhaled a long, shuddering breath.
“I was hired to take photographs of you, Mr. Moretti.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“I was at the downtown shipping port until five o'clock this evening, surrounded by forty dockworkers and two federal customs agents. I was not in the East Suite.”
“I know that now,” Marianne Cole whispered, her voice trembling.
“Then who the hell was in that room?” Luca snapped, the ice in his voice finally cracking into thunder.
“Someone she wanted to look like you,” the photographer admitted.
Before Luca could demand another word, a soft knock sounded against the heavy mahogany door of the study.
The door pushed open slowly.
I stood in the entryway, clutching the hem of my gray woolen cardigan around my shoulders.
A small, sterile white bandage was taped securely behind my left ear, covering the stitches Dr. Harris had just put into my torn lobe.
My hair was pulled back tightly into a bun, exposing the dark purple finger-marks bruising the side of my throat.
Luca’s gaze drifted from the glowing phone to my face.
“Sophie,” he said softly.
“Dr. Harris said I could go home, sir,” I murmured, my voice trembling under the heavy stares of the men in the room. “I just... I wanted to return something to your desk before I left.”
Luca’s eyes stayed glued to me.
“Come inside. Close the door.”
I hesitated, then took three cautious steps across the Persian rug until I stood before the vast mahogany desk.
I reached into the deep pocket of my cardigan.
My fingers closed around a cold, heavy piece of polished brass.
I pulled it out and laid it carefully on the leather blotter, directly beside Luca’s untied cufflinks.
It was a heavy, square brass cufflink, intricately carved with an interlocking monogram.
LM.
Luca looked down at it.
His breath caught in his throat.
“This is mine,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“I know, sir,” I replied.
“This cufflink went missing two weeks ago, along with my platinum travel watch.”
He lifted his head, his dark eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made my knees shake.
“Where did you find this, Sophie?”
“On the rug beside the bed in the East Suite, sir,” I said, tears blurring my vision. “Right beneath the edge of the mattress.”
Luca reached out, picking up the heavy metal square and closing his fist around it until his knuckles turned bone-white.
He looked back down at the glowing screen of the phone on his desk.
“Marianne,” Luca said into the speaker.
May you like
“I’m listening,” the photographer replied quietly.
“Describe the man who was wearing my clothes in that bedroom.”
