Chapter 2 - The Silent House
The basement of the Moretti estate did not look like the dungeons in the movies. It was clean, brightly lit with sterile fluorescent tubes, and smelled faintly of damp concrete and laundry detergent.
But the heavy, solid-steel door that locked from the outside made its purpose perfectly clear.
I sat on a metal folding chair in the corner of the room, my silver shears resting in my lap like a talisman. I hadn't been allowed to leave. Luca’s chief of security, a giant of a man named Marcus, had politely but firmly escorted me down here "for my own protection."
A few yards away, Bastion Vera was slumped on the floor, his head in his hands, weeping softly.
"I didn't know," Bastion sobbed, his expensive leather loafers scuffed from the rough handling he’d received on the way down. "Clara, you have to tell them! I’m a designer, not a spy! I don't know anything about military trackers or infrared markers!"
"You knew Vivien Cross was paying the studio's lease," I said, not looking at him.
Bastion froze, his tears drying instantly. He slowly lifted his head, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and guilt. "What?"
"I do the books, Bastion," I said, my voice tired. "You think because I spend all my time in the back room with a needle that I don't see the ledgers? Vera Haute Couture has been in the red for three quarters. Then, suddenly, two months ago, a private offshore account in the Caymans settles our entire commercial debt. The transfer was routed through a holding company called V.C. Enterprises."
"She... she said she wanted to support local artists," Bastion stammered, his voice trembling. "She said she wanted to make sure Luca’s suit was perfect. She only asked to see the design sketches! She wanted to check the fabric before we cut it!"
"And she brought her own tailor," I added. "The one who called in sick today. The one who 'conveniently' left his toolkit in our back room last night."
The heavy steel door groaned open.
Luca Moretti stepped into the room. He had changed out of his white dress shirt and was now wearing a simple, dark grey cashmere sweater and black trousers. He looked less like a mafia boss and more like an elegant predator who had just finished a quiet meal.
Marcus followed him, holding a folder of printed documents.
Luca didn't look at Bastion. He walked directly to me, standing so close I could see the tiny gold flecks in his dark eyes.
"Your employer is a fool," Luca said, his voice flat. "But he is a cowardly fool. He didn't write the code for the tracker, and he didn't buy the chemical tag. But his bank accounts tell a very interesting story."
"I told you!" Bastion scrambled to his knees, reaching out toward Luca's boots. "It was Vivien! She threatened me! She said if I didn't let her man handle the final fitting, she’d withdraw the funding and ruin my name!"
Luca didn't even look down to kick him away. Marcus simply stepped forward, his heavy boot pressing down on Bastion's chest, forcing the designer back onto the concrete floor with a grunt of pain.
"Vivien Cross has been talking to the federal prosecutor's office for six months," Luca said, his eyes still locked on mine. "She was offered a deal. Absolute immunity and entry into witness protection, provided she could deliver me on a silver platter before the wedding. The tracker was for the feds. The microphone was for the district attorney."
"And the chemical tag?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat. "The infrared marker? Federal agents don't use targeted airstrikes on domestic soil."
A dark, grim smile touched Luca’s lips. "No. They don't. That was Vivien's private insurance policy. She wasn't just working for the government. She was working for the Marcone family. If the feds failed to lock me up, the Marcones were going to make sure I didn't survive the drive to the courthouse."
He reached down, his large, calloused hand gently taking my chin, forcing me to look up at him. His touch was surprisingly light, almost reverent, but the power behind it was unmistakable.
"You saved my life today, Miss Ward," he said. "And in my world, a life saved is a debt that must be settled. Tell me... what does a seamstress who can read cloth like a map want?"
May you like
I looked at his hand, then back into his eyes.
"I want to live," I said. "And I want to finish the suit."
