Chapter 5 - The Blood On the Police Report
The rain began again at four in the morning, drumming a steady, somber beat against the tall glass windows of the West Wing.
Inside the quiet master bedroom, Rebecca was sitting on the edge of a velvet armchair, watching Clementine sleep. The little girl’s breathing was slow and rhythmic, one small hand clutching the edge of the silk blanket.
Rebecca couldn't sleep. Her mind was a chaotic storm of memories, questions, and mounting terror.
She kept looking at the silver picture frame on the nightstand—at Thomas’s young, laughing face.
How could I not have known? she thought to herself, tears stinging her eyes again.
She remembered the strange things Thomas used to do. How he always sat facing the door in restaurants. How he checked the rear-view mirror every three seconds while driving. How he never let her take pictures of him to post online. She had thought he was just shy, just a quiet country boy who preferred his privacy.
He was hiding from a kingdom of blood and iron. And he had died trying to keep that kingdom away from her.
A subtle sound interrupted her thoughts.
It wasn't the rain. It was the faint, muffled click of a hidden latch turning inside the wall behind the heavy oak wardrobe.
Rebecca froze.
She didn't move a muscle, holding her breath as her eyes drifted toward the dark corner of the room.
The wooden paneling beside the wardrobe slid open two inches, revealing a dark, narrow service passage used by staff decades ago to access the laundry chutes.
A figure dressed in a black silk robe slipped out of the shadow like a ghost.
It was Genevieve.
Her face was twisted into a triumphant, malicious sneer. She moved silently across the thick Persian rug toward the luggage rack near the closet, holding a small velvet pouch in her gloved right hand.
She didn't notice Rebecca sitting in the high-backed armchair in the dark corner.
Genevieve unzipped Rebecca’s worn canvas suitcase—the cheap, faded bag Rebecca had carried into the house eighteen months ago—and reached inside to slide the velvet pouch between the folded cotton dresses.
“Looking for something, Miss Falcone?”
The voice cut through the dark room like a thrown blade.
Genevieve gasped violently, jumping backward so fast she tripped over the edge of the rug and fell hard onto her hip. The velvet pouch flew from her hand, spilling its contents across the polished floorboards.
A heavy gold necklace encrusted with massive diamonds clattered against the wood, alongside two glass vials filled with clear liquid.
“You!” Genevieve shrieked, scrambling backward on her hands and knees toward the secret panel. “You filthy little trash—!”
“Don't move.”
The main oak doors of the West Wing slammed open with a sound like a cannon shot.
The grand chandelier above flickered to life in a sudden, blinding flash of crystal light.
Adriano Falcone stood in the doorway. Behind him stood Dominic and four heavy enforcers carrying automatic weapons.
Genevieve froze on the floor, her eyes darting frantically from the diamonds on the floor to Adriano’s face.
“Adriano!” she screamed, instantly shifting her tone into hysterical terror as she pointed a trembling finger at Rebecca. “Thank God you’re here! I heard noises in the service passage! I came down to check, and I caught her! She stole the Moretti diamonds from your safe! She has poison in her bag!”
She looked around at the guards, trying to muster her old authority. “Search her! Search her room! She’s a spy sent by my father!”
Adriano didn't move. He didn't look at the diamonds on the floor. He didn't look at Rebecca.
He simply pulled a small black digital audio recorder from his coat pocket, pressed a button, and set it on the mahogany table beside the door.
Genevieve’s own voice echoed loudly through the room:
> “In my private safe in the basement garage... there is a velvet pouch containing three ounces of pure morphine and an old diamond necklace... You are going to plant that necklace... inside the maid’s luggage...”
Genevieve’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood drained from her face so completely that her skin turned a ghastly, translucent grey.
“You... you tapped my room,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the rain outside.
Adriano walked slowly across the room. He didn't look angry. He looked entirely hollowed out by a deep, dark disgust.
He stopped over Genevieve, looking down at her as if she were a dead rat lying on his floor.
“Three years ago,” Adriano said, his voice terrifyingly calm, “my brother was murdered on a dark road in West Virginia.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out an old, yellowed police report, tossing it onto Genevieve’s lap.
“I spent three years thinking Boston killed him to hurt me,” Adriano continued. “I never imagined the call came from inside my own house. I never imagined my own wife sold my brother’s life for five hundred thousand dollars to pay off her gambling debts at the docks.”
Genevieve began to weep—not out of remorse, but out of the raw, paralyzing horror of a predator that had finally been caught in a steel trap.
“Adriano, please!” she sobbed, grabbing at the hem of his trousers. “My father forced me! He hated Thomas! He said Thomas would come back and take the family fortune! I didn't want him to die! I just wanted him out of the way!”
Adriano pulled his foot back, dislodging her fingers as if her touch were toxic.
“Dominic,” Adriano said softly.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Take her down to the holding cells beneath the wine cellar,” Adriano ordered, turning his back on her. “Keep her alive. Her father, Don Carmine Moretti, is arriving from Boston at noon today for a meeting. I want her sitting in the dark until he gets here.”
“No! Adriano, please! Not the cells! My father will kill me!” Genevieve screamed as two massive guards grabbed her by her arms and dragged her out of the room, her high heels scraping uselessly against the wood until her shrieks faded down the long, cold hallway.
Silence returned to the West Wing.
Rebecca sat frozen in her armchair, her hands tightly gripping the armrests, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Adriano walked over to her. He picked up the heavy diamond necklace from the floor, threw it casually into a trash bin near the desk, and knelt in front of Rebecca.
“She will never touch you again, Rebecca,” Adriano said softly. “Neither will her father.”
Rebecca looked at him, her voice barely a breath. “What are you going to do?”
May you like
Adriano looked over at little Clementine, who was beginning to stir in the bed, her small eyes fluttering open in the bright light.
“At noon today,” Adriano said, his jaw setting into iron, “I am going to end thirty years of corruption in this city. And I am going to make sure my brother’s family is finally safe.”
