Chapter 7 - The Salt and the Iron
The port of Bellagio was cold and slick with sea spray when the Moretti convoy pulled up to the private docks at noon.
Three black SUVs idling near the water’s edge made the small fishing village look like a movie set. Men in dark coats stood near the shipping containers, their hands tucked deep into their pockets, their eyes constantly scanning the surrounding hills.
When Luca stepped out of the lead vehicle, the atmosphere on the dock shifted instantly. Men straightened their posture; conversation died.
He walked toward the main warehouse, his hand held loosely at his side, his large frame cutting through the light sea fog like the prow of an iron ship. I walked beside him, my boots clicking against the wet cobblestones, my hand tucked firmly into his elbow.
Silvano was already there, flanked by four younger men carrying heavy leather duffel bags.
"Luca," Silvano said, stepping out from the shadow of a blue container. "You brought the girl again. Is she your lucky charm now?"
"She is my wife," Luca said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, heavy tone that signaled an absolute boundary.
Silvano’s eyes flicked to mine, a cold, mocking smile touching his thin lips. "Not yet, Moretti. The priest hasn't signed the registry."
"The registry is a formality," I spoke up, stepping forward just half an inch—enough to show I wasn't hiding behind Luca’s shoulder. "And if you’re here to inspect olive oil, Silvano, you’re standing on the wrong dock. The pressings are in section four."
Silvano’s smile faded slightly. He gestured to one of his men, who stepped forward and unzipped one of the leather duffel bags, pulling out a heavy silver laptop and a scanner.
"We aren't here for olive oil, girl," Silvano said coldly. "We’re here to verify the ownership manifests for the Moretti shipping line. There are rumors in Milano that your father sold his voting shares to a French conglomerate before he fled."
I felt a cold drop of sweat trace down my spine.
My father had been a gambler, a liar, and a terrible businessman, but I had never thought he would sell shares he didn't own. If he had sold Moretti assets to a foreign syndicate, Luca’s position on the council was entirely compromised.
Luca didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the laptop.
"My father’s shares were bought back ten years ago," Luca said calmly. "The documentation is in the central vault at the estate."
"Then bring it to the council meeting on Tuesday," Silvano sneered, turning his back on us. "Because if those papers aren't signed by a legitimate Moretti heir, the northern territories will be split between Turin and Genoa by Wednesday morning."
He walked away, his men falling into step behind him like crows following a plow.
Luca stood silent on the wet dock, his eyes fixed on the retreating cars. I looked up at his face—his jaw was set so tight I could see the muscle twitching near his ear.
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"He’s lying," I said softly, reaching out to wrap my fingers around his forearm. "My father didn't have access to the shipping manifests. I went through his papers before I left Boston. He had debts, but he didn't have shares."
Luca looked down at me, his eyes dark with a storm of calculation. "Your father didn't have them, Sophia. But your mother did."
