Chapter 3 - The Ghost of 1984
The silence in the studio became so absolute that the hum of the old fluorescent bulb overhead sounded like a low-flying jet engine.
Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs. Killed her. The words hung in the damp air like poison gas. For months, she had viewed Luca Moretti as a corporate predator—a cold-blooded billionaire trying to bulldoze her grandfather’s legacy for luxury condos. But hearing Donato drop that casual bombshell reframed every shadow in the room.
Luca didn't blink. His hand drifted back toward his waist, his fingers brushing the fabric over his hidden weapon.
“Drop the cane, Donato,” Luca whispered, the tone so devoid of warmth it made Vance whimper against the doorframe. “Or you won't make it to the sidewalk.”
Donato laughed again, though this time it lacked humor entirely. He signaled with his left hand, and the two enforcers flanking him instantly raised their weapons, their submachine guns training directly on Luca’s chest.
“You think you’re the only one who learned how to pull a trigger, boy?” Donato snarled, stepping closer until the silver tip of his cane was inches from Luca’s coat. “Your father made you boss because you had his ruthless streak. But you forgot the first rule of the Moretti family: dead secrets stay dead. And Isabella was the deadest secret we had.”
Elena couldn’t hold back any longer. She grabbed a heavy glass solvent jar from her desk and slammed it down onto the wood with a sharp crack.
“Get out of my shop!” she shouted, her voice shaking with adrenaline and fury. “I don’t care who your father was, and I don't care about your family’s mob history! You’re standing in a historic landmark, you broke my front door, and you are tracking mud all over my Persian rug!”
Donato slowly turned his heavy, rheumy eyes toward her. A slow, predatory smile spread across his wrinkled face.
“Ah. The artist,” Donato murmured, taking two heavy steps toward Elena’s desk. “You’ve got spirit, Miss Brooks. Reminds me of your grandfather. Walter thought he was clever, hiding the truth in plain sight for forty years. Keeping her unfinished portrait in a trunk like a dirty little secret.”
“Walter was an honest man,” Elena snapped, standing her ground despite the firearms pointed all around her. “He didn’t know anything about your criminal family. He just knew a woman who needed a safe place to hide.”
“She wasn't hiding from us, sweetheart,” Donato hissed, leaning across the desk. “She was running with the ledger. The original property deeds to the entire South Side docks, signed over to her by my brother before he decided to get soft. If that painting shows the signature on the back of the canvas—the secret codicil Walter witnessed—then every piece of real estate Moretti Development owns legally belongs to the heirs of Isabella Moretti.”
Donato’s eyes snapped back to Luca. “Which means your billion-dollar empire, nephew? It legally belongs to nobody... unless we destroy the canvas right here, right now.”
Luca’s expression didn't change, but a single bead of sweat rolled down his temple. His eyes flicked from Donato’s gun to the back of the wooden easel.
“You’re insane,” Luca said softly. “That ledger was destroyed in the 1984 warehouse fire.”
Donato pulled a thick, leather-bound book from inside his heavy overcoat—its pages charred at the edges, water-stained and smelling faintly of old ash and copper. He tossed it onto Elena’s desk. It landed with a dull, heavy thud right beside her favorite set of sable brushes.
“Fires leave scars, Luca,” Donato smiled darkly. “Just like family.”
Before anyone could breathe, the back room’s wooden door—the one leading down to the damp, forgotten basement—creaked open with a slow, agonizing groan.
A figure stepped out of the shadows, holding an old kerosene lantern and a rusted iron fireplace poker.
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It wasn't a ghost. It was an old woman wearing a faded wool cardigan, her silver hair pulled back into a tight bun, staring directly at Donato Moretti with eyes that looked like shattered glass.
“You always were a lying bastard, Donato,” the old woman said, her voice raspy and trembling with fury. “Marco didn't kill her. You did.”
