Chapter 3 - The Empty GarageThe air in the grand foyer felt as heavy as lead. Every guest had retreated back into the dining room or dispersed toward the exits, sensing an explosion of catastrophic proportions. No one dared cross Luca Moretti when his dark eyes locked onto a target.
“What tools?” Luca asked, his voice deathly quiet as he stared down at his son.
Matteo swallowed hard, wiping his sleeve across his damp eyes. “The old hand planes. The socket set Grandpa left behind. The drill press. Vanessa said they were safety hazards and had two men from the moving company load them into a truck while you were at the downtown office.”
Luca’s gaze slowly dragged upward from the demolition permit, fixing on Vanessa. The fury burning in his eyes was terrifying—not the blind rage of a hothead, but the cold, calculating wrath of a predator whose den had been invaded.
Vanessa forced a tight, brittle smile, her hands trembling as she smoothed the fabric of her red velvet gown.
“Luca, don't be absurd,” she babbled, her voice climbing an octave. “The garage is a dilapidated shack. It’s infested with mice, the wiring is a fire hazard, and frankly, it lowers the property value of this entire estate by a million dollars. I simply spoke to a commercial contractor to have the space cleared out so we can build a modern three-car garage and a pool house before the wedding.”
“Without my permission,” Luca stated flatly.
“You’re a busy man! You have a billion-dollar empire to run! I was saving you the administrative headache—”
“You forged my signature on a city demolition permit,” Luca interrupted, holding up the yellow paper. “That isn't an administrative headache, Vanessa. That’s a felony.”
A collective gasp echoed from the shadows of the hallway as some remaining guests whispered among themselves. Vanessa’s aristocratic facade finally cracked completely. Her cheeks flushed an angry, mottled red.
“How dare you speak to me like that over a pile of rusted junk?” she shrieked, dropping her mask of sophistication. “I am your fiancée! I am trying to drag this family into the twenty-first century, and you’re acting like a sentimental peasant over a dead man’s workbench!”
Luca didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice. He handed the wooden box and the demolition permit to me, his movements controlled and deliberate.
“Claire. Take Matteo to the kitchen. Get him some hot chocolate.”
“Dad, I want to stay—” Matteo started, his voice cracking.
“Go with Claire, son,” Luca said, his tone softening just a fraction as he rested a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. “I need to handle some business.”
I gently placed a hand on Matteo’s back, guiding him away from the foyer toward the service wing. As we walked down the wide corridor, I could hear Vanessa’s voice escalating into frantic panic behind us.
“You can't cancel the contract, Luca! The crew is scheduled for eight tomorrow morning! If you humiliate me in front of my society friends tonight—”
“Your society friends can leave through the front gates right now,” Luca’s voice cut through her threats like a cleaver. “Security!”
Two burly men in black suits materialized instantly from the perimeter.
“Escort Ms. Bellini’s luggage out to her vehicle,” Luca commanded coldly. “And ensure she is off the property before I finish my drink.”
“Luca! You wouldn't!” Vanessa screamed as the security guards stepped toward her. “You need me! Who do you think manages your charity galas? Who do you think curates your social standing?”
“I need my son,” Luca replied, the finality in his tone echoing off the marble floors. “And I need my integrity. Get out of my house, Vanessa.”
By the time Matteo and I reached the warm, brightly lit kitchen, the front doors had slammed shut with a concussive boom. The engagement dinner was officially dead, killed by a crooked wooden box, a forged signature, and a father who refused to let his son’s heritage be bulldozed away.
Matteo sat quietly at the marble island, tracing the scorched edges of the box I had set before him.
“Do you think Dad is really mad at me?” the boy whispered, looking up with wide, frightened eyes.
“At you?” I smiled gently, pouring steaming milk into a mug. “Matteo, your father has never been more proud of anything in his life. You saved his father’s memory tonight.”
The boy let out a long, shaky breath, a small smile finally touching his lips. “I just wanted him to have something real.”
Ten minutes later, the kitchen doors swung open. Luca walked in, having shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his silk tie. He looked tired, the hard edges of his dangerous reputation softened by the deep, aching lines around his eyes.
He walked straight to the island, pulling out a stool next to his son.
“Matteo,” Luca said softly.
The boy looked up quickly. “Dad, I’m sorry about the party. I didn't mean to ruin your dinner.”
Luca reached out, gently ruffling his son's dark hair. “You didn't ruin anything, son. You saved it. That party was built on quicksand anyway.”
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Matteo’s eyes brightened. “What about the garage? Did the moving company take everything?”
Luca’s jaw tightened, a dangerous glint returning to his eye. “They took the heavy power tools. But they haven't destroyed the building yet. And as for Grandpa’s workbench...” Luca paused, looking directly at his son with fierce determination. “By tomorrow morning, every single tool they took will be back where it belongs. I give you my word.”
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