Chapter 3 - The Broken Thread
Deep in the estate's private basement workshop, beneath the wine cellars and old stone foundations, Tony Rigio was conducting his own silent inventory. Accompanied by two veteran enforcers whose families had served the Beluchcci name for three generations, Tony was methodically inspecting the locker room used by Marco's personal security detail.
Eighteen lockers lined the concrete wall. Tony didn't use keys; he used an iron pry bar, snapping the padlocks with loud, metallic cracks that echoed through the damp room.
He moved from locker to locker, examining the navy blue tailored coats hanging inside. Locker four: complete. Locker seven: complete. Locker eleven: complete.
Then he reached Locker fourteen, assigned to Julian Vance, Marco’s senior personal driver and trusted confidant.
Tony swung the locker door open. Inside hung the dark wool jacket. Tony grabbed the lapels and brought them into the harsh fluorescent light overhead. The top button was intact. The bottom two were intact. But right across the center seam, exactly where Sophie had pointed on her own chest, the third button was missing. A small tuft of gray thread was frayed and torn, exactly as the child had described.
Tony didn't say a word. He pulled out his radio and pressed the encrypted channel. “Boss. We found the thread.”
Upstairs in the private master suite, Lorenzo was standing by the rain-streaked window, looking out over the manicured lawn toward the Hudson River. “Bring Julian to the tasting room. Quietly. No sirens, no alarms. If Marco notices he’s missing, tell him Julian was sent to fetch fresh ammunition from the perimeter bunker.”
Ten minutes later, Julian Vance was shoved through the heavy oak door of the subterranean wine tasting room. He was a wiry man with sharp, rat-like features, currently sweating through his dress shirt. His hands were bound behind his back with industrial zip-ties. When he saw Lorenzo sitting at the head of the long oak table, flanked by Tony and two armed enforcers, his knees buckled.
“Mr. Beluchcci, please! What is this?!” Julian shrieked, his voice bouncing off the brick walls. “I’ve served this family for six years! I drove your mother to church every Sunday before she passed!”
Lorenzo reached into his pocket, pulled out a small plastic evidence bag containing the torn gray thread, and dropped it onto the table. Beside it, he placed the high-definition photograph of the undercarriage of the blue SUV.
“A six-year-old girl has better eyes than an entire squad of federal agents, Julian,” Lorenzo said softly, leaning his elbows on the table. “You were seen near the east gate holding a magnetic demolition charge with both hands. You dropped your badge near the gravel, and you left your button on the bush by the fountain.”
Julian’s face turned an awful shade of gray. “I didn't have a choice! Marco told me you were leading the family into financial ruin with these peace treaties! He promised me two hundred thousand dollars and the oversight of the Queens distribution warehouses!”
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“Who ordered the bomb placed?” Lorenzo demanded, his voice steady as a heartbeat.
“Marco! It was Marco!” Julian sobbed, collapsing onto his knees on the cold flagstones. “He coordinated with the Moretti syndicate! They planned to wipe out your convoy at mile marker 8, blame the hit on the Russian crew from Brighton Beach, and elevate Marco to boss before sunrise! He even gave me the key to Elena’s room to plant the phone and the gun!”
