Chapter 3 - The Thread of Suspicion
By the next morning, the Moretti estate had transformed into a fortress.
The wedding had not been canceled. To cancel the wedding would be a public admission of weakness, a signal to the other five families of the syndicate that Luca Moretti’s inner circle had been breached.
Instead, the stage was set. The invitations remained valid. The cathedral was secured.
And I was moved from the basement to a massive, sunlit guest room on the third floor, which had been converted into a temporary workshop. A brand-new sewing machine—the finest German model money could buy—stood in the center of the room, surrounded by bolts of the same imported black wool and silk lining I had ruined the day before.
"You have thirty-six hours," Luca had told me before he left the room. "The suit must be identical. No one outside this house can know that the original garment was compromised."
"I don't need thirty-six hours," I said, already drafting the chalk lines on the wool. "I need twenty-four. But I need one thing from you."
"Name it."
"Keep Vivien Cross in the house," I said, my fingers pinning the fabric to the board. "If she thinks her plan is still active, she won't try to run. And whoever is waiting on the other end of that tracker won't realize the trap has been sprung."
Now, the steady, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the sewing machine was the only sound in the room.
The door opened quietly.
I didn't stop sewing. I knew the weight of the footsteps.
"You move like a soldier, Marcus," I said, keeping my eyes on the seam. "But you breathe like an athlete. You’re too quiet for a bodyguard."
The giant security chief let out a soft, dry chuckle as he closed the door behind him. He carried a silver tray with a pot of black coffee and a plate of pastries.
"Mr. Moretti thought you might be hungry," Marcus said, setting the tray on the corner of the cutting table. He stood there for a moment, watching my hands move with the fluid, effortless speed of a master. "You’re wasted in Bastion’s shop, Miss Ward."
"It paid the rent," I said, snipping the thread. "And it kept me invisible. Invisible is safe."
"Not anymore," Marcus said, his tone turning serious. "The tracker you found... our tech team ran the serial numbers. It was checked out of a federal logistics facility in Virginia three weeks ago. The authorization code belonged to an agent named Vance. He's the lead investigator on the Moretti task force."
"And the chemical marker?" I asked, turning the wool to work on the shoulder seam.
"Still a mystery," Marcus admitted, his brow furrowing. "The compound is highly restricted. Only three military laboratories in the country produce it. We’re looking into our own security team. Someone had to let Vivien's tailor into this house to swap the suits."
I stopped the machine. I looked at the coffee, then at Marcus.
"It wasn't a swap," I said.
Marcus stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"The suit I cut open yesterday... I tailored the trousers myself in Bastion’s shop last week," I said, standing up to stretch my tight shoulders. "I know my own stitches, Marcus. The thread density, the tension... it was my work. No one swapped the suit. The tracker and the marker were installed inside our workshop, while the garment was still on our dress form."
Marcus's eyes darkened. "So Bastion—"
"Bastion doesn't have the stomach for it," I interrupted. "He’s a designer who faints at the sight of blood. He couldn't have hidden those devices without leaving a puckered seam or a loose thread. He’s too obsessed with aesthetic perfection."
"Then who?"
"The girl who brought the coffee," I said, pointing to the silver pot. "The intern who handled the deliveries. Or... someone who has been standing in this room every day, pretending to be a loyal friend."
Marcus stared at me, his hand slowly dropping toward his holster as the implications of my words settled in.
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"You think the leak is still in this house," he whispered.
"I don't think," I said, picking up my chalk. "I sew. And cloth never lies."
