Chapter 2 - The Wrath of the Lion
Luca Moretti did not walk into a room; he commanded it like a force of nature.
Within five seconds of his roar, the master of the Moretti syndicate burst through the doorway of the music room. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a dark charcoal suit that smelled of rain and gunsmoke. His dark hair was slicked back, and his striking, chiseled features were locked in an expression of absolute, merciless fury.
Luca took in the scene before him with eyes that missed nothing.
He saw Vivian standing near the bookshelf, clutching her torn emerald dress, weeping hysterically with fresh blood staining her arm.
He saw the scattered legal papers littering the floor around the overturned inkpad.
And finally, his gaze locked onto his mother, Isabella, who was struggling to push herself up from the floor, her cheek bruised red, her hand stained black with ink.
The air in the room grew instantly heavy, dropping ten degrees. The armed bodyguards who had rushed in behind Luca hovered in the doorway, their hands resting cautiously near their shoulder holsters, waiting for a single word from their boss.
“Luca... thank God you’re home,” Vivian sobbed, staggering toward him and burying her face against his chest. She pointed a trembling finger directly at Naomi, who stood paralyzed near the piano. “She... she went completely insane! I walked in to check on Isabella, and this woman was trying to suffocate her! When I tried to stop her, she attacked me, tore my dress, and tried to force Isabella to sign forged documents!”
Vivian’s performance was an Oscar-worthy masterpiece of deceit. Her voice trembled with fragile vulnerability as she clung to Luca’s lapel.
Luca did not hug her back. He slowly peeled Vivian’s arms away from his chest, his gaze shifting with icy precision toward Naomi.
Naomi’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell the truth, but the words stuck in her throat. She looked at Luca’s face—the face of a man whose enemies routinely vanished without a trace—and realized how damning the physical evidence looked. The torn dress, the scattered papers, the ink on Isabella's fingers, and Vivian’s bloody arm.
“Is this true, nurse?” Luca asked. His voice was not loud; it was a soft, deadly murmur that carried the weight of an executioner's axe.
“No, Mr. Moretti, it’s a lie—” Naomi began, stepping forward.
“Don't listen to her!” Vivian cried out, wiping fake tears from her cheeks. “Look at her! She’s just a hired hand from the slums! She was trying to steal control of the estate assets while you were at the docks!”
Luca ignored Vivian, taking two slow, heavy steps toward Naomi. His dark eyes pierced through her defenses, searching for any sign of guilt or panic.
Suddenly, a weak, shuffling sound came from the floor.
Isabella Moretti, using her good left arm to push against the leg of the Steinway piano, struggled to her feet. Her breathing was heavy, her silver hair framing a face etched with decades of survival and fierce maternal strength.
Everyone in the room turned toward her.
Vivian’s breath hitched. A flicker of genuine panic crossed the fiancée’s eyes as she watched the old woman stand up.
Isabella raised her trembling, ink-stained right hand.
For a terrifying second, she pointed her index finger straight out across the room.
Vivian inhaled shakily, a triumphant, wicked smirk flashing across her face before she quickly replaced it with a look of sorrowful vindication.
“You see?” Vivian whispered loudly to Luca, leaning in close. “She knows who did this. She’s pointing right at her.”
Isabella’s finger did not waver.
Luca slowly, mechanically turned his head, following the line of his mother’s trembling finger.
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It wasn't pointing at Naomi.
Isabella’s finger was pointed directly, unmistakably, at Vivian Vance.
