Chapter 5 - The Chapel in the Snow
The old Moretti chapel stood half-buried in snow at the edge of the estate.
It had been abandoned for decades, long before Lorenzo was born. Its stained-glass windows were cracked, its roof sagged, and the iron cross above the entrance leaned sideways against the storm.
Marcus wanted Clara to stay behind.
Lorenzo wanted it even more.
But Clara refused.
“Giovanni knows me,” she said. “If he’s scared, I need him to hear my voice.”
Lorenzo stared at her.
“You are seven months pregnant.”
“And he is an old man in a wheelchair.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I have.”
He looked like he wanted to lock her in the mansion for her own safety.
Instead, he opened the SUV door.
“Stay in the vehicle until I tell you otherwise.”
Clara nodded.
She had no intention of obeying.
Inside the chapel, Carlo DeLuca waited.
He was older than the man in Giovanni’s painting, but not softer. His dark suit was perfectly tailored. His gray hair was brushed back. He held a glass of wine in one hand while Giovanni sat bound in his wheelchair near the altar.
Giovanni’s face was bruised.
His eyes searched the doorway.
Then they found Clara.
His entire expression changed.
Relief.
Fear.
Warning.
Carlo smiled.
“There she is. The maid who became a problem.”
Lorenzo entered first, gun lowered but ready.
“Let my father go.”
Carlo looked amused.
“Your father built an empire on loyalty. Strange that he should end his life abandoned by the people he trusted.”
“You paid Mrs. Gable.”
“I gave her an opportunity. She hated your father long before I arrived.”
Giovanni made a rough, furious sound.
Carlo walked toward him.
“Still angry, old friend? You had your chance to kill me years ago.”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed.
“You were supposed to be dead.”
Carlo smiled.
“I was supposed to be many things.”
Clara stepped out from behind Lorenzo.
“Why are you doing this?”
Carlo’s gaze moved to her stomach.
“Because you changed the balance of power.”
“I’m a maid.”
“No,” Carlo said. “You are proof that Giovanni Moretti still has a conscience. And now Lorenzo does too.”
Lorenzo’s voice sharpened.
“Do not speak about things you do not understand.”
Carlo laughed.
“Oh, I understand perfectly. You are becoming soft. You are protecting a pregnant girl, caring for your father, questioning old loyalties. Your men see it. Your enemies see it.”
He held up a phone.
On the screen was a video.
Brody.
He sat tied to a chair in a dark room, blood on his forehead.
Clara gasped.
“Brody!”
Carlo watched her reaction.
“Your child’s father made a poor decision. He thought he could sell information to me, then sell information about me to Lorenzo.”
“Please,” Clara whispered. “Let him go.”
Carlo tilted his head.
“You still care about him?”
“No,” she said, tears rising. “But Lily deserves to know her father had a chance to do better.”
For the first time, Carlo seemed surprised.
Lorenzo looked at Clara.
Then at the phone.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Carlo’s smile returned.
“The Moretti accounts. The shipping records. Every name connected to your family’s remaining businesses.”
“You want to destroy the Moretti organization.”
“I want to own what remains of it.”
Lorenzo took one step forward.
“You will never have it.”
Carlo sighed.
“Then your father dies. Brody dies. And perhaps the young woman discovers how quickly a child can lose everything.”
Giovanni suddenly slammed his wheelchair backward.
The chair struck the stone wall with a violent crash.
A hidden wooden panel beside the altar broke open.
Behind it was an old metal lever.
Giovanni reached for it with his shaking hand.
Carlo spun around.
“What are you doing?”
Giovanni pulled the lever.
A heavy iron chandelier crashed from the ceiling between Carlo and his guards. Glass exploded across the chapel floor.
Marcus and Lorenzo’s men burst through the side doors.
Gunfire erupted.
Lorenzo grabbed Clara and pulled her behind a stone pillar.
“Stay down!”
But Clara saw Giovanni’s wheelchair roll toward the edge of the stage after the impact.
“Giovanni!”
She ran.
“Clara!” Lorenzo shouted.
She reached him just as the wheelchair tilted toward a broken section of floor. With both hands, she grabbed the back handles and pulled with all the strength she had.
Pain ripped through her lower back.
Giovanni’s chair stopped inches from the drop.
Then Carlo appeared behind her.
He grabbed her arm.
Lorenzo saw it.
The look on his face made every man in the chapel freeze.
“Let her go,” Lorenzo said.
Carlo pressed a knife against Clara’s side.
“Drop your weapon.”
Lorenzo did.
“Kick it away.”
He did.
Carlo smiled.
And then Giovanni moved.
With one trembling hand, he grabbed the silver candlestick from beside the altar and struck Carlo across the wrist.
The knife fell.
Clara stumbled free.
Lorenzo crossed the distance in seconds.
He hit Carlo once.
Not wildly.
Not cruelly.
Just once, hard enough to send him crashing to the floor.
Then Lorenzo stood over him with the gun in his hand.
Carlo looked up and laughed through blood.
“You won’t do it,” he said. “Not in front of her.”
Lorenzo’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Clara stepped between them.
“Lorenzo.”
He looked at her.
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t let Lily’s first story be about another man dying.”
For a long moment, Lorenzo did not move.
Then he lowered the gun.
Police sirens rose through the snow outside.
Carlo DeLuca was arrested alive.
But as Clara leaned against Lorenzo, shaking from pain and exhaustion, she felt a warm rush down her legs.
Lorenzo looked down.
His face went white.
“Clara?”
She gripped his coat.
May you like
“I think Lily is coming.”
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