Chapter 8 - The Confession in the Dark
In the second-floor study, emergency battery-powered sconces had flickered on, casting a dim, orange glow across the mahogany furniture and the heavy leather armchairs.
Paul Marchetti stood before the large wall safe hidden behind the oil painting of the Amalfi coast.
His coat was off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his face was slick with sweat as he tried to input the digital code on the electronic keypad.
"Damn it!" Paul growled, punching the numbers again. "The electronic lock reset when the main power tripped!"
Sabrina was standing near the mahogany desk, holding a small flashlight aimed at the safe's dial. She wore a dark wool coat over her clothes, her hand trembling slightly as she held the light steady.
"Try the mechanical override key," Sabrina urged, her voice high, thin, and tight with mounting panic. "Dad, we don't have time! If Gio comes back from the docks—"
"Gio doesn't know anything!" Paul snapped, reaching into his pocket for a brass key. "That deaf bastard has been sleeping like a corpse for three hours. The medication Wexler left in his evening tea was double-strength."
"He looked at me differently this morning, Dad," Sabrina said, her voice echoing in the quiet room. "I'm telling you... when he took my hand off his cheek, his eyes... it was like he was looking right through me."
Paul chuckled—a bitter, arrogant sound as he inserted the key into the safe's lower cylinder.
"He's a cripple, Sabrina," Paul said callously. "He's been a brain-damaged cripple since the night Mateo took those two bullets in the alley."
Sabrina didn't contradict him.
"It was so easy," she murmured, a faint, chilling smile touching her lips in the amber light. "Three years of playing the devoted fiancée. Sitting beside him while he stared at whiteboards like a dog waiting for instructions. Do you know how hard it was to let him touch me?"
She laughed—a small, musical laugh that made the skin on the back of Dominic’s neck turn to ice.
"Every time he signed 'I love you' with those clumsy hands," Sabrina continued, "I wanted to scream in his face that his brother died crying on his knees, begging for his life while you took the ledgers out of the office safe."
Behind them, standing in the high, arched doorway of the study, shrouded in complete shadow, Dominic stood motionless.
Every word.
Every syllable.
Every drop of cold, calculated venom was captured by his newly restored left ear, hitting his auditory cortex with the force of a thunderclap.
He didn't move. He didn't breathe.
Beside him, Nora stood with her hand resting gently against his shoulder, feeling the terrifying, seismic tension radiating through his body.
Dominic reached out with his left hand, found the heavy brass light switch on the wall beside the door frame, and flipped it.
The primary chandelier flared back into life as the backup generator engaged.
Brilliant, white, blinding light flooded the study.
Paul Marchetti spun around, dropping his key.
May you like
Sabrina gasped, dropping her flashlight, which shattered against the parquet floor.
Standing in the center of the doorway, his Sig Sauer held low at his side, his eyes as black and cold as the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, was Dominic Ferraro.
