Page 21 of Devil's Embrace
My decision made, I turned away from the stairs and moved toward the light.Toward Luca's study.Toward the devil's den.
I approached the door silently, my ears straining for any sound from within.Nothing but silence.Perhaps he'd left the light on and gone elsewhere?The thought gave me courage.
Holding my breath, I placed my hand on the doorknob, twisted it slowly, and pushed the door open just enough to peek inside.
The study was empty.
Relief flooded me, quickly followed by a surge of adrenaline.This was my chance.I slipped inside, closing the door behind me with a soft click that sounded thunderous in the quiet room.
The study smelled of expensive cologne, leather, and whiskey.A crystal tumbler sat on the desk, amber liquid still visible at the bottom, ice cubes just beginning to melt.He hadn't been gone long.My gaze swept the room—the wall of books behind the desk, the leather chairs arranged near a small fireplace, the laptop closed but still warm when my fingers brushed its surface.Everything about this space screamed power and control, just like its owner.
I needed to be quick.Moving to the desk, I began opening drawers, rifling through papers with nervous fingers.The first drawer contained only expensive pens, notepads, and a silver letter opener far nicer than the one I'd used to pick the lock.The second drawer held nothing of interest—business documents with letterheads reading "Moretti Imports," whatever that meant.
The third drawer slid open to reveal several manila folders, neatly labeled and organized.My breath caught when I saw my name on one of them.Emory Scott.
With trembling hands, I pulled it out and opened it on the desk surface.The first page was a detailed profile—my date of birth, social security number, medical history.Photos of me at various locations—walking into work, shopping at the grocery store, picking Mina up from school.The invasion of privacy made my skin crawl.How long had he watched us before Halloween night?Or did he gather everything afterward?Most of the pictures looked like they came from security cameras around town.
I flipped to the next page.A complete history of my employment—not just at Reynolds & Associates, but every job I'd held since I was sixteen.Notes about my efficiency as a secretary, comments from former employers.There were even copies of my performance reviews.
The next section was about Mina—her birth certificate - how had he gotten that?- her medical records, notes from her teachers about her reading level and social skills.A photograph of her in her classroom, taken through a window, her blonde head bent over a coloring book.
"Oh my God."I brushed my fingers over the image of my daughter.The thought of someone watching her, photographing her without my knowledge, made me physically ill.When had this been taken?For what purpose?I highly doubted Luca had done it, or even ordered it.Was someone else monitoring Mina without me knowing?
The last pages detailed my family history—my parents' names and address in Alabama, notes about their estrangement from me.A photograph of my childhood home.And most disturbing of all, a transcript of the last conversation I'd had with my mother, when she told me not to come home after I announced my pregnancy.
How could he possibly have that?I'd never told anyone the exact words she'd used—the cruel dismissal, the way she'd called me a disappointment, how she'd said Tyler had been right to leave me.
I felt violated in a way that transcended the physical.This man had peeled back the layers of my life, exposing every vulnerability, every pain, every struggle.And for what purpose?
I set the folder aside, feeling sick but determined to find something—anything—that might help us escape.Another folder caught my eye, this one labeled "Moretti Family—1996."Curiosity overrode caution, and I opened it.
Newspaper clippings filled the first several pages, headlines screaming tragedy."MORETTI MANSION FIRE CLAIMS TWO LIVES.""BUSINESS TYCOON AND WIFE PERISH IN SUSPICIOUS BLAZE.""MORETTI HEIR, 7, ORPHANED IN FAMILY TRAGEDY."
I stared at a photo of a small boy with serious eyes, standing beside a much younger version of the man Luca had called his uncle.Mateo.The caption identified the child as "Luca Moretti, 7, sole survivor of the fire that claimed his parents' lives."
Seven years old.Just two years older than Mina was now.Despite everything, my heart ached at the thought of a child losing both parents so violently.
I continued reading, piecing together the story from the various articles.The fire had been ruled "suspicious" but never officially declared arson.The Moretti family had extensive business interests, some of which were rumored to be less than legitimate.Speculation about enemies, business rivals, vendettas.
And through it all, photos of that solemn little boy, his face growing harder with each passing year captured in the media.The last image showed a teenage Luca, his expression completely closed off, eyes empty of emotion.
My fingers traced the outline of his young face.What happens to a child who loses everything?What kind of man grows from those ashes?
Beneath the newspaper clippings lay a small voice recorder, sleek and expensive-looking.A yellow sticky note attached to it read simply: "Caparelli—10/31."
Halloween night.The man in the alley.
My finger hovered over the play button.I shouldn't.I should put everything back and continue my search for Mina.But something compelled me to press it, to understand what had led to the violence we'd witnessed.
Luca's voice filled the quiet room, clinical and detached.
"Vincent Caparelli, terminated October 31st.Cause: repeated violations of security protocol, selling information to the Bianchi family regarding shipping routes.Evidence collected over three months confirmed direct contact with Salvatore Bianchi on at least seven occasions.Method: single blade, carotid artery.Location selected for minimal witness exposure.Cleanup crew dispatched at 9:45 PM.No complications."
No complications.Except for a woman and child wandering into the alley at precisely the wrong moment.
I pressed stop, my hand shaking.The cold, methodical way he described taking a human life—like it was just another business transaction, another item checked off a to-do list.This was the man who now held us captive, who had been kind to Mina, who had looked at me across the breakfast table with those unreadable eyes.
A soft click from the doorway made me freeze, the recorder still in my hand.Slowly, I raised my eyes.
