Chapter 2 - Blood on the Ledger
The rain lashed against the front window of Brooks and Brush with renewed fury, blurring the neon lights of Wabash Avenue into shimmering smears of red and amber. Inside, the heavy atmosphere of artistic refuge had instantly curdled into a war room.
Luca Moretti didn't flinch at the mention of Donato or the vault ledger. Instead, his dark eyes narrowed into thin, dangerous slits. He pulled his hand away from his jacket, his fingers twitching toward the edge of the workbench where Elena’s ceramic paint jars sat.
“Donato shouldn’t have that ledger,” Luca said, each word measured and chillingly flat. “The 1984 vault was sealed the night my father died. Only two keys existed.” He looked sharply at Vance. “Did you authorize an audit of the North Side safehouse?”
“No, I swear to God, boss!” Vance pressed his back against the locked door, his hands raised defensively. “I haven't opened that safe since the merger last November. If Donato has the ledger, he either found a copy or someone inside the inner circle sold the combination.”
Elena crossed her arms over her apron, watching the two dangerous men with a mixture of disbelief and steely defiance. “Excuse me, but this is a registered small business, not a Chicago mob movie set. If your uncle wants to wave ancient bookkeeping around in the rain, he can do it down the street. My front glass is double-paned, but it’s not bulletproof.”
Luca ignored her entirely, stepping toward the front door. He grabbed Vance by the lapel of his expensive Brioni suit, hauling the lawyer inches from his face. “Listen to me very carefully, Vance. If Donato steps foot inside this studio before I give the word, you won't live long enough to file another building permit.”
“I didn't tell him where you were, Luca!” Vance gasped, his face turning pale. “GPS. Your phone’s tracking chip is tied to the corporate server. Donato must have rerouted the network feed.”
Luca shoved the lawyer back against the wall with enough force to rattle the framed family portraits hanging nearby. He turned his attention back to Elena, his demeanor shifting back to the unnerving intensity he’d held when staring at his mother’s portrait.
“Your grandfather’s basement,” Luca said. “Is there another exit?”
Elena stared at him, bewildered. “The coal chute, but it hasn’t been opened since the seventies. It leads out to the alley behind the bakery. Why? You’re the one who owns half the block—why are you worried about your uncle?”
“Because Donato didn't come here to talk about real estate development,” Luca said, pulling a heavy brass key ring from his pocket and tossing it onto her desk. “He came here because he knows what that painting proves. And if he sees Isabella’s face on that canvas, he’ll burn this entire block to the ground to keep the secret buried.”
Before Elena could demand an explanation, the front door’s brass handle rattled violently again. This time, the heavy oak frame groaned as a heavy boot slammed against the wood. The lock splintered, sending wood chips flying across the hardwood floor.
The door swung wide open.
Standing in the frame was a heavyset man in his late sixties wearing a bespoke herringbone overcoat. A silver-handled cane rested in his right hand, but his left hand held something far more lethal: a nickel-plated revolver pointed straight at the floor. Behind him stood four armed enforcers, their wet shoulders gleaming under the studio’s dim tungsten lights.
“Well, well, well,” Donato Moretti rumbled, his voice thick with gravel and decades of malice. He stepped inside, shaking the rainwater from his brimmed hat. “I send my nephew to evict a stubborn art teacher, and forty-five minutes later, he’s having a family reunion.”
Luca didn’t move an inch. He stepped casually in front of the easel, placing his body directly between Donato and the unfinished portrait of Isabella.
“You’re trespassing, Donato,” Luca said, his voice dropping an octave into a lethal register. “Turn your men around and get back in the car.”
Donato chuckled, a wet, ugly sound that echoed off the high ceiling. He stepped further into the studio, his eyes sweeping over the canvases, the paint-splattered floor, and finally landing on Elena, who stood frozen beside her desk.
“Look at this,” Donato sneered, tapping his cane against a stack of sketchpads. “A little museum for ghosts. Your father would have hated this, Luca. Marco spent twenty years scrubbing your mother out of our history. And you—the great, untouchable head of the Moretti syndicate—are standing here crying over a paint-stained rag because some girl with a paintbrush found an old sketch in a basement.”
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Donato raised his cane, pointing the silver tip straight at the linen cloth covering the lower half of the portrait.
“Let’s see the rest of it, niece,” Donato said, locking his cold eyes on Elena. “Let’s see what Walter Brooks painted the night my brother killed her.”
