Chapter 2 - The Signature on the OrderThe crystal champagne flute in Luca's hand didn't shatter, but his grip tightened so violently that the knuckles turned stark white.
For several agonizing seconds, the master of the Moretti empire stood frozen in the center of the library, the air thick with the scent of burnt pine and scorched lacquer. The noise of the twenty-nine guests laughing and talking in the adjacent dining hall felt like it was echoing from a million miles away.
“Where did Matteo get this wood?” Luca asked. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a deadly, controlled resonance that made Vanessa visibly flinch.
I kept my eyes downcast, glancing sideways at Vanessa. Her eyes were wide, shooting me a look of pure, venomous warning. Say a word, and you'll never work in this city again.
“Claire,” Luca repeated, his dark eyes pinning me in place. “Look at me.”
I swallowed hard, the burn on my palm stinging fiercely. “From your father’s workbench, sir.”
Luca’s expression shifted, a sudden wave of realization crashing over his features. “He made this in Dad’s garage?”
“Yes.”
“Where is Matteo?”
“Upstairs, Mr. Moretti.”
Vanessa forced an unnatural, high-pitched laugh, stepping between Luca and the doorway. “He’s just being dramatic, sweetheart! I told him the box wasn't appropriate to sit among the corporate gifts from your associates. It’s completely warped.”
Luca slowly turned his head to look at her. The coldness in his eyes could have frozen liquid nitrogen.
“What happened to it, Vanessa?”
“Nothing! It fell—”
“Don't lie to me,” Luca cut her off, his voice dropping into a register so low it barely carried across the room. He looked back at my blistering hand. Then down at the blackened corner of the box.
He took a step toward Vanessa, his gaze unblinking. “Claire. How did the box catch fire?”
“She put it in the fireplace, sir,” I whispered.
Vanessa’s face hardened, all pretense of sweetness instantly evaporating. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Luca! Look at it! It’s crooked, it’s amateurish, and it smells like a lumberyard! You have thirty powerful people downstairs bringing you luxury watches, vintage wines, and fine art—”
“And my son brought me something he made with his grandfather’s hands still in the wood,” Luca interrupted, every word clipped like a physical blow.
Vanessa folded her arms, her jaw tightening. “You’re indulging him, Luca. He’s twelve years old. He needs to learn what standard of quality is expected in this family. Besides, you’re starting a new chapter tonight. You don't need trash from the past dragging you down.”
Luca didn't yell. He didn't curse. He simply stared at the woman he was scheduled to marry in less than an hour, as if he were seeing a stranger for the very first time.
Slowly, deliberately, Luca popped the latch of the small wooden box.
Inside, resting in the charred compartment, was a folded piece of lined notebook paper. The edges were singed brown, but the ink inside was still legible.
Luca unfolded it. His eyes scanned the messy, earnest handwriting.
Dad, I know Grandpa can’t come to your wedding. So I used part of his bench. Now both of you can be there.
Luca’s eyes welled up with moisture—a rare, staggering sight for a man who had weathered decades of cartel wars, corporate betrayals, and public ruthless efficiency.
Without a word, he handed the note to me. I held it gently, my chest aching.
Then, Luca turned his back on Vanessa and walked out of the library toward the grand staircase.
“Matteo!” his voice boomed up the stairwell, rich with raw emotion.
Click.
A second-floor bedroom door clicked open. A small, solemn figure in a miniature black suit stepped out onto the landing, peering down over the wrought-iron banister. Matteo’s eyes were rimmed in red, his cheeks stained with dried tears.
Luca held up the box, his hand trembling slightly.
“Did you make this for me?”
Matteo sniffled, clutching the fabric of his trousers. “I’m sorry it’s crooked, Dad. Vanessa said—”
“I wouldn't straighten one single piece of it,” Luca interrupted, his voice cracking.
He didn't take the elevator. He took the stairs two at a time, closing the distance between them until he reached the landing. And right there, in full view of the guests beginning to peek out from the hallway, the most feared man in Chicago pulled his twelve-year-old son tightly against his chest, burying his face in the boy's dark curls.
Matteo let out a ragged sob, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck. “So... so you’re not embarrassed?”
Luca pulled back, holding his son by the shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. “Who told you I was embarrassed?”
Matteo glanced down the hall toward the library, where Vanessa stood frozen in her red dress.
That was all the answer Luca Moretti needed.
His face hardened into a mask of stone. He stood up, holding the box like a shield, and walked back down the stairs with Matteo trailing closely behind him, holding onto his father's jacket sleeve.
As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Matteo looked up hesitantly.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“Can we still finish Grandpa’s garage tomorrow?”
Luca frowned, looking down in confusion. “Of course we can. We go every Saturday.”
The boy shook his head, looking miserable. “But Vanessa said tomorrow it won't be ours anymore.”
Silence descended upon the grand foyer. Not a single guest dared to whisper.
Luca slowly turned his head back toward the library entrance. “What does that mean, Matteo?”
Vanessa went completely, ghastly pale. Her manicured hands flew to her throat. “Matteo misunderstood! He’s just making things up to get attention—”
“No, I didn't,” Matteo interrupted, his voice steady as he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
He pulled out a folded piece of official yellow construction paper and handed it to his father.
Luca took it. His dark eyes scanned the bold black header, moving down the legal paragraphs until they hit the bottom line.
DEMOLITION PERMIT — 8:00 A.M. MONDAY. Authorized Owner Signature: LUCA MORETTI.
Luca stared at the signature.
Then, slowly, his eyes raised to meet Vanessa’s terrified gaze.
“I never signed this,” Luca whispered, the temperature in the room plunging below freezing.
May you like
Matteo whispered one final sentence that sealed the night's fate:
“Dad... she already made men take Grandpa’s tools away this afternoon.”
Related Stories
