Chapter 4 - The Anatomy of a Frame-Up
The silence in the study was so absolute that the hum of the fluorescent bulb in the adjacent hallway sounded deafening.
Marianne Cole’s voice drifted through the small speaker of the phone, sounding tinny, hollow, and utterly terrified.
“He had your build, Mr. Moretti,” she began, her words tumbling out in a rush.
“Broad shoulders. Dark hair cut short at the neck. Same height.”
Luca’s eyes remained fixed on the brass cufflink clenched within his fist.
“What was he wearing?”
“One of your tailored white dress shirts,” Marianne said. “The sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He was wearing dark trousers. He had a platinum watch on his left wrist—a vintage Patek Philippe.”
Luca let out a slow, poisonous breath.
“My travel watch,” he murmured, the puzzle pieces clicking into place with horrifying precision.
“Vanessa told me two weeks ago that I must have forgotten it in the hotel safe in Atlanta.”
He looked up from the desk, his eyes locking onto mine.
“Tell me what you saw when you opened that door, Sophie. Every single detail.”
My throat felt parched, the stitches behind my ear pulling sharply as I struggled to find my voice.
“I was carrying fresh linen for the guest suite, Mr. Moretti,” I explained, clutching the wool of my cardigan around my chest.
“The schedule said the room was vacant until tomorrow morning. I didn’t know Miss Bellini had requested privacy.”
“Go on,” Luca ordered softly.
“I unlocked the door with my master key,” I whispered, closing my eyes as the memory flashed vividly behind my eyelids.
“The curtains were drawn completely shut. The only light came from two studio lamps positioned near the foot of the four-poster bed.”
Daniel leaned forward, his military posture stiffening with rage.
“Was the man in the bed?” Daniel asked.
“He was sitting on the edge of the mattress,” I replied, my voice shaking. “His back was turned toward the door. He was leaning over, unbuttoning his shirt.”
“And Vanessa?” Luca’s voice was as cold as a grave in midwinter.
“She was beside him,” I said, looking Luca dead in the eye.
“She wasn’t wearing her red dress yet. She was wearing a white silk nightgown. Her hair was down, tangled around her shoulders, looking as if she had just woken up.”
A sharp, ragged breath slipped from Mrs. Carter’s lips across the room.
“What were they doing, Sophie?” Luca demanded.
“She had her arms wrapped around his neck from behind,” I said, a tear finally spilling over my lashes.
“She was laughing. And this woman—Marianne—was kneeling on the carpet near the wardrobe, taking photograph after photograph with a high-speed lens.”
Luca tapped the phone on the desk.
“Marianne, why were you taking those pictures?”
The photographer swallowed loudly over the line.
“Miss Bellini paid me ten thousand dollars in cash, Mr. Moretti. She told me it was a creative anniversary surprise. She claimed you loved psychological games and wanted staged, voyeuristic proofs of your intimacy to keep in a private vault.”
Luca’s lip curled in disgust.
“Do I look like a man who plays dress-up with cheap doubles, Miss Cole?”
“I... I knew something was wrong the moment I walked in,” Marianne cried out defensively.
“The man never turned his face toward my lens. Miss Bellini specifically instructed me to shoot only angles where his face was obscured in shadow, or where only the monogram on his cufflink, the watch on his wrist, and the birthmark on his right shoulder blade were visible!”
Luca’s head snapped back, his posture rigid.
“The birthmark?” he asked, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper.
“Yes,” Marianne said. “The double had a faint, oval scar on his right shoulder blade. Miss Bellini had applied makeup over it to make it look like a dark, raised birthmark.”
Daniel swore under his breath, stepping closer to the desk.
“Boss, you have that exact birthmark on your right shoulder. From the shrapnel in Detroit nine years ago.”
Luca’s expression hardened until he looked like an ancient stone monument.
The trap was not merely clever; it was surgical.
It was designed to withstand the scrutiny of forensic examiners, private investigators, and syndicate arbiters alike.
He looked back at me, his eyes sweeping over the bruised handprints on my throat.
“And how did you end up bleeding on my dining room floor, Sophie?”
My chest heaved as the terror of that afternoon rushed back into my lungs.
“I gasped when I saw them, sir,” I said, touching the sterile white tape behind my ear.
“The door creaked. The man jumped up and grabbed his jacket, running into the adjoining bathroom.”
“Did you see his face?” Daniel interrupted urgently.
“Only a glimpse in the mirror,” I admitted. “He had high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and pale blue eyes. But he turned away before I could get a clear look.”
Luca’s hands clenched into tight fists upon the blotter, his knuckles turning pure white.
“And Vanessa?”
“She turned on me like an animal, Mr. Moretti,” I wept softly.
“She screamed at me. She asked me what I was doing in her quarters. I dropped the linen basket and backed toward the hallway, trying to apologize.”
I pointed down at the brass cufflink sitting on the desk.
“I looked down, and this was lying right by my shoe. I recognized it immediately because I polish your dress studs every Tuesday morning. I knew it was yours, but I knew you were at the docks.”
“And you picked it up?”
“I reached down instinctively to grab it,” I whispered.
“Vanessa saw me do it. She realized I knew the scene was a lie. She lunged forward and grabbed me by the throat, pinning me against the doorframe.”
My voice broke, the memory of her long, manicured nails digging into my windpipe making it hard to draw air.
“She told me if I ever breathed a word of what I saw, she would have my brother thrown out of the clinic and have me dumped into the Chicago River.”
Luca slowly stood up from his chair.
He towered over the desk, radiating an aura of violence so potent that even Daniel stepped back a pace.
“She put her hands on you?” Luca asked, his voice deathly quiet.
“She grabbed my hair,” I sobbed, the tears streaming down my face.
“She tried to snatch the cufflink out of my hand. Her heavy diamond bracelet caught on my hoop earring and yanked it. The metal tore straight through the lobe.”
The study fell into a silence so profound that the ticking of the clock sounded like hammer blows against iron.
Luca looked at the bloodstained cufflink.
He looked at the purple bruises wrapping around my pale throat.
He looked at the small, frightened woman who had stood between him and total destruction without even realizing the magnitude of the war she had stumbled into.
He leaned down over the desk, his face inches from the speakerphone.
“Marianne,” Luca said, each syllable dropping like lead.
“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Why did Vanessa Bellini tell you she needed those photographs?”
Marianne Cole began to cry on the other end of the line, her professional veneer shattering completely.
“She said... she said she needed photographic evidence that proved you were sleeping with her in private hotel suites two years ago.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure obsidian.
“Two years ago?” he repeated. “Why would she need to prove we were together before our public courtship began?”
The photographer choked back a sob before speaking the words that made the blood run cold in Luca’s veins.
“Because Don Salvatore Bellini was poisoned in a locked penthouse suite in Geneva two years ago, Mr. Moretti.”
May you like
Marianne’s voice cracked over the speaker.
“She said those photographs were the only thing that could prove you were the one in the room with him before he died.”
