Chapter 11 - The Letter on the Terrace
Three days after Lucian Moretti proposed to me, someone left a black envelope on the terrace thirty-four stories above Chicago.
No stamp.
No courier record.
No security footage.
Just my name written across the front in silver ink.
HARPER DELANEY.
I stood frozen beside the teak dining table, still wearing one of Lucian’s white dress shirts over my pajama shorts. Morning sunlight poured across Lake Michigan, turning the water into hammered silver.
“Lucian?”
He stepped out of the kitchen carrying two coffees.
One look at my face, and the relaxed man I had spent the morning teasing disappeared.
“What happened?”
I pointed.
Lucian set the mugs down.
He didn't touch the envelope.
Instead, he pressed a button beneath the terrace counter.
“Gideon. Roof. Now.”
Thirty seconds later, Gideon appeared through the security door with two men carrying scanners.
I crossed my arms.
“This is what normal engaged couples do, right? Coffee, wedding magazines, bomb squad?”
Lucian didn't smile.
Gideon scanned the envelope, tested it for chemical residue, then carefully opened it.
Inside was a single cream-colored card.
Lucian read it.
His expression changed.
Not fear.
Something older.
Anger mixed with recognition.
“What?” I demanded.
He handed it to me.
Congratulations on your engagement.
Before the Moretti heir marries, he should remember what his father signed.
Bellini House.
Friday.
Midnight.
Come alone.
Beneath those words was a red wax seal stamped with an ornate letter M.
I looked up.
“What did your father sign?”
Lucian walked toward the windows.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
That frightened me more than the letter.
“Lucian.”
“My father believed families like ours survived through alliances,” he finally said. “Money. Marriage. Loyalty. Blood.”
“You're describing medieval Europe.”
“In some ways, organized wealth hasn't changed much.”
I stared at him.
“Did your father arrange a marriage for you?”
Lucian turned.
“No.”
That answer came too quickly.
I raised an eyebrow.
He sighed.
“When I was seventeen, there were conversations about a future alliance with the Conti family. Their daughter was fourteen. Nothing was signed. Nothing was agreed. Our parents died before any arrangement became relevant.”
“So there's no secret mafia fiancée coming to throw wine at me?”
His mouth twitched.
“No.”
“Good. Because this ring is staying on my finger.”
I lifted my hand.
The emerald flashed.
Lucian crossed the terrace and took my fingers in his.
“The problem isn't a woman, Harper.”
“Then what is it?”
“My father created the Moretti Family Trust. It controls voting rights over several shipping companies, warehouses, and real estate holdings. Most of those businesses are legitimate now.”
“Most?”
“I'm working on the rest.”
I appreciated the honesty.
Lucian continued.
“There were rumors that my father attached conditions to succession. I never found the complete original document after his death.”
“And someone suddenly remembers it three days after you get engaged?”
“Exactly.”
Gideon stepped closer.
“Bellini House has been empty twelve years.”
I knew the name.
Everyone in Chicago architecture knew Bellini House.
A limestone mansion on the North Shore, built in 1928 for an Italian railroad magnate. Marble staircases. Hand-carved ceilings. An underground wine vault rumored to connect to old Prohibition tunnels.
It had been owned by the Moretti family since the seventies.
“You aren't going alone,” I said.
Lucian gave me a look.
I gave him one right back.
“Don't.”
“Harper—”
“You proposed to me. That means you don't get to make unilateral decisions involving mysterious mansions and threatening letters anymore.”
“That isn't technically part of marriage law.”
“It is now.”
Gideon coughed suspiciously into his fist.
Lucian glanced at him.
“Something amusing?”
“No, boss.”
“Good.”
Lucian looked back at me.
“I will go with security.”
“And me.”
“No.”
“Lucian.”
“Absolutely not.”
I stepped closer.
“Whoever left that card got through a security system you designed to survive a military assault. That means they understand your world.”
“Yes.”
“But Bellini House is architecture. Old architecture. Hidden passages, renovation layers, structural modifications.”
His eyes narrowed.
I smiled.
“My world.”
He hated that I was right.
I could see it happening behind those storm-gray eyes.
Finally, he exhaled.
“You stay beside me.”
“Fine.”
“You follow Gideon's instructions.”
“Within reason.”
“Harper.”
“Fine.”
“And if anything feels wrong, we leave.”
I slipped my hand into his.
“Deal.”
That evening, while Lucian met with his attorneys, I researched Bellini House.
I found original floor plans from 1928.
Renovation permits from 1974.
A basement expansion in 1989.
Then something strange.
A sealed architectural amendment dated two weeks before Lucian's parents died.
No drawings.
No contractor.
No description.
Only one handwritten note in the permit index.
PRIVATE FAMILY ARCHIVE.
My skin prickled.
I printed the page.
At the bottom was the approving signature.
Alessandro Moretti.
Lucian's father.
Friday night, apparently, we weren't going to Bellini House to find out who was threatening our future.
May you like
We were going to discover what Lucian's father had hidden inside the walls.
And somewhere in Chicago, someone already knew we were coming.
