Page 150 of Cinder
Unfortunately, Luca overheard me say it and pulled that face he does when things don’t go his way and stormed off.
If it were Ella, she would’ve stood her ground and stuck up for herself. Told me off without disrespecting me, just like her beautiful mother used to do when she was alive and I spoke out of turn, God rest her soul.
“He’s no don,” Santo pointed out. “Who will you have take your place when it’s time to hand over the reins?”
“Ella. She has the smarts. She has the spine.”
“A smart choice, Don Moretti. She will do well.”
Up until now, Luca had no idea that when the time comes, Ella will inherit all of this, with the support of my men.
He sits up straight.
“But I am your eldest child,” he whines.
“But not the most suited to the role.”
He looks indignant. “But there is only Ella, and surely you’re not grooming her to take your place. That role is mine.”
The indignation and entitlement in his voice grates on my nerves.
“Says who. Not me. And I am the one who decides.”
“But she’s a girl.”
“Sheis my daughter.”
“And I am your son.” He launches to his feet and the chair scrapes along the marble. He braces his hands on his hips. “I’m meant to be the next don.”
“You’re not don material.”
Three weeks later, I’m preparing for bed after flying in late from a visit to the old country. It’s a moonlit night, and I’m relieved to be home. The house is quiet and after a week of meetings with the family where a lot of passionate discussions took place, I find myself craving the quiet. I dismiss my bodyguards for the evening, and they return to their living quarters in the guest cottage on the other side of the estate. I am home now.Safe.
I set the alarm and climb the stairs to the second floor.
In my bedroom, I discard my jacket and remove my tie and pour a scotch. I’m tired, and my back aches from hours of travel. Opening the French doors leading out to the small balcony off my bedroom, I stand in the moonlight and look out at the silvery night.
The movement behind me takes me by surprise, and before I can stop it, the plastic bag is pulled over my head and yankedtight against my face. I drop my scotch and the tumbler crashes to the floor.
Struggling, I fight my unseen enemy behind me. But they pull the bag tighter, so I am suffocating. I swat at the hands securing the bag in place, then claw at the plastic pressed tight against my lips. But I am running out of breath. The darkness is coming, and I am powerless against it.After everything I have endured in my life, this is how it ends?My lungs burn. My body sags. And as I fall to my knees, I hear a familiar voice at my ear.
“I’m not so weak now, am I old man?”
CHAPTER 67
Ella
If Luca wasn’t alreadydead, I’d kill him.
A narcissist, he had a point to prove to the man whose attention he craved.
We will never know the extent of what went on in that cellar. But Lars found Luca’s journal when he tossed his room, and the journal was a wealth of information.
A meticulous record keeper,no doubt so he could look back at how good he was, Luca journaled every depraved moment of his plan.
How after suffocating our father into unconsciousness, he kept him locked in the old carriage house on the property, drugged and sick, while he carried out his plan. He built his prison in the cellar. Put on an elaborate funeral for the donMoretti. Then set about corroding the Moretti empire like a cancer.
Killing our father wasn’t enough for Luca. An egotistical psychopath, he needed to know our father was under his complete control. Because in his sick, twisted mind, it made him the better man.
