Chapter 8 - Ashes and Absolution
A single shot rang out, sharp and definitive, echoing through the shattered mansion before giving way to absolute, ringing silence.
Don Vincent Bellini crumpled to the ground, dead before his body hit the marble threshold.
Luca stood over him for a long moment, the smoke drifting lazily from the barrel of his gun. He didn't celebrate. He didn't look triumphant. He simply exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding for twenty long years.
“Marco,” Luca said, his voice strained and heavy with exhaustion.
“Yes, Boss?” Marco stepped forward, wiping soot from his brow, his rifle lowered.
“Clean this up,” Luca instructed, holstering his weapon. “Call the council elders. Send them the copy of the audio tape and the signed contract. Tell them Don Bellini attempted an unauthorized assassination and the matter has been settled according to syndicate law. They will not retaliate.”
“And the girl in the basement?” Marco asked quietly. “Vanessa?”
Luca paused, his jaw tightening. “Put her on a cargo freighter bound for South America. Strip her of the Bellini name, her trust funds, and her passport. Let her live the rest of her life in poverty, knowing she traded her soul for nothing.”
“Understood, Boss.”
Luca slowly turned around. The adrenaline that had kept him upright seemed to drain from his body all at once. He swayed slightly, clutching his wounded shoulder, his white dress shirt completely soaked in crimson.
I didn't wait for permission. I rushed down the damaged marble staircase, clutching the cedar box in one hand and hiking up the hem of my maid’s apron with the other.
“Luca!” I gasped, reaching him just as his knees buckled.
I caught him, wrapping my arm around his uninjured side, bearing as much of his weight as my smaller frame could manage. He groaned in pain, leaning heavily against me, his dark hair damp with sweat and his breathing shallow.
“You shouldn't have thrown that statue, Emma,” he muttered against my neck, a faint, breathless rasp in his voice. “You could have hurt your back.”
I couldn't help the tearful laugh that escaped my throat. “You’re bleeding to death, and you’re worried about my posture?”
“You saved my life,” he said softly, his dark eyes looking up into mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Again.”
“Come on,” I said, guiding him toward the leather sofa in the drawing room, away from the carnage in the foyer. “We need to get this bullet out before you get an infection.”
With Marco’s help, I got Luca settled onto the couch. When the estate doctor arrived fifteen minutes later, Luca refused to let anyone touch him until I was checked first.
“I’m fine, Luca, truly,” I insisted, sitting on the ottoman beside him. “I don't have a single scratch.”
“Your hands are bruised,” Luca said, his voice gravelly as the doctor cut away his bloody sleeve to examine the bullet graze. “From pushing that heavy bronze.”
He reached out with his uninjured right hand, taking my small, bruised fingers into his large, calloused palm. He didn't let go, even when the doctor poured antiseptic onto his open flesh. He didn't flinch from the stinging alcohol; his eyes remained locked on mine, tethered to me as if I were the only real thing left in his world.
“The dress,” Luca murmured suddenly, looking past me toward the foyer.
I smiled gently, squeezing his fingers. “It’s untouched, Luca. It’s sitting right on the table, safe from the fire.”
A look of profound peace washed over his sharp features, softening the ruthless lines of his face. “Thank you, Emma.”
“You don't have to thank me for doing what was right.”
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“No,” Luca whispered, lifting my hand to his lips and pressing a gentle, lingering kiss against my bruised knuckles. “You don't understand. You didn't just save a dress. You saved my soul.”
***
