Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the Penthouse
“Lock the doors,” Luca ordered the guards.
The heavy deadbolts clicked into place with finality. The smart-glass windows of the penthouse automatically tinted to an opaque obsidian, cutting off the view of the Manhattan skyline below. We were sealed in a tomb of wealth and betrayal.
“Mr. Moretti,” Bastion sobbed from the armchair, his makeup streaked with tears. “Please! I have money! I have accounts in Zurich! I’ll give you everything! Just don't—please!”
Luca didn't even look at the designer. He walked over to the minibar, poured himself two fingers of neat amber bourbon, and drank it in a single swallow.
Then he turned to me.
I stood beside the table, my hands resting calmly on my utility belt. Thirty-six years old, overlooked, underpaid, and knee-deep in chalk dust. In any other room in the city, I was invisible. Here, I was the only person holding the truth.
“What is your name?” Luca asked, his voice low.
“Eleanor Ward,” I replied steadily.
“Eleanor,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue as if evaluating its weight. “You noticed a red panic stitch in the cuff of a black wool suit from twenty feet away while three senior designers and a room full of sycophants saw nothing.”
“I’ve been sewing since I was nine years old, Mr. Moretti,” I said, meeting his terrifying gaze without blinking. “My father was a master tailor in Savile Row before the industry went corporate. He taught me that cloth talks. When a machine stitches a hem, it has rhythm. When a human hand rips open a finished sleeve lining and sews it back up in a rush, the tension changes. The thread weight changes. And a panic stitch—a quick, loose cross-lock used to secure a lining in an emergency—doesn't belong on a four-figure bespoke garment unless someone is hiding contraband inside.”
Luca stared at me for a long, silent moment. A ghost of a smirk touched the corner of his mouth—not a warm smile, but the expression of a predator recognizing another creature’s survival instincts.
“You’re wasted working in Bastion’s basement,” Luca said.
“I’m aware.”
“She’s lying!” Vivien suddenly shrieked, breaking down completely as she slid down the wall to the floor. She pointed a trembling finger at me. “She’s a plant! A corporate spy hired by one of our rivals—maybe the Rossi family! She planted those bugs herself to frame us!”
Luca slowly turned his head toward her. The temperature in the room plummeted.
“Vivien,” Luca said softly. “Stop talking. Every word you speak digs the hole deeper.”
“Ask Bastion!” she sobbed, looking frantically at the designer. “Tell him, Bastion! Tell him about the offshore account! Tell him why we needed to know his schedule!”
Bastion flinched, burying his face in his hands. “Shut up, Vivien! You’ll get us both killed!”
The confession hung in the air, thick and undeniable.
Luca didn't look surprised. He walked slowly over to Vivien, looking down at her crumpled form like an entomologist inspecting a diseased insect.
“The Rossi family,” Luca murmured, tasting the words. “They offered you a stake in the shipping lanes if you handed over my merger schedules and security rotas for the wedding weekend.”
Vivien shook her head wildly, tears streaming down her face. “They threatened me! They said if I didn't get the bugs into your clothes, they’d release the documents proving my father embezzled—”
“Your father didn't embezzle, Vivien,” Luca interrupted coldly. “I wiped his slate clean. He lost the money gambling in Monaco, and I paid the debts out of pocket because I foolishly believed loyalty could be bought with grace.”
He turned his back on her, dismissing her as if she were already dead.
He walked back over to the fitting table, picking up the heavy black jacket. He ran a large, scarred hand over the ripped lapel where I had cut the second bug free.
“Can it be fixed?” Luca asked quietly.
I blinked, surprised by the question. “Excuse me?”
“The suit,” Luca said, looking up at me. “Can a master tailor fix the lining without ruining the drape?”
I stepped forward, taking the sleeve between my fingers, feeling the weight and weave of the wool.
“It won't be easy,” I admitted. “The horsehair canvas has to be replaced, and the pick-stitching has to be redone by hand. It will take six hours of microscopic work.”
Luca reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a heavy black checkbook and a solid gold fountain pen, scribbled a series of numbers, and tore the leaf out. He laid it on the table beside the tracking devices.
I glanced down at the numbers. The amount written on the line was more than I made in three years at the atelier.
“That’s for the repair,” Luca said. Then he pulled a second card from his pocket—a sleek, unembossed platinum card with a single direct phone number etched into the metal. “And this is your new retainer. Starting tomorrow, you are the head of bespoke security and wardrobe for Moretti Enterprises. Your salary will triple, your hours will be your own, and you will answer only to me.”
I stared at the card, then up at the most feared man in New York.
“And Miss Cross and Mr. Vera?” I asked, gesturing to the two weeping wrecks on the floor.
May you like
Luca’s expression hardened into absolute stone.
“My guards will escort them to a very quiet place in upstate New York to discuss breach of contract,” Luca said calmly. He stepped close to me, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “And you and I are going to sit down, Eleanor, and discuss what a real wedding suit looks like.”
