Chapter 16 - THE HISTORY TEACHER’S CROSSING
The afternoon sun was warm enough to coax the remaining autumn leaves into a golden dance across the Maple Street lawn, but inside the perimeter gates, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Mark—Emily’s boyfriend, the mild-mannered high school history teacher—was due to arrive for Sunday dinner. It was his first time stepping foot inside the Moretti mansion since the night of the shooting, and the security team had treated his arrival like a state visit by a foreign head of state. Two black SUVs had escorted his dented Honda Civic from the end of the block, and three armed guards had stood watch while he nervously unbuckled his seatbelt. I met him at the massive double front doors before he could even reach the brass knocker, offering him a warm, reassuring smile to keep his knees from buckling completely under the weight of the moment. "Relax, Mark," I said, holding the door open wide. "Mr. Moretti has agreed not to interrogate you about the Peloponnesian War unless you bring it up first." Mark swallowed hard, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with a trembling hand as he stepped into the cavernous marble foyer. "Is... is the sniper rifle still pointed at the front walkway?" he asked in a breathless whisper. "Only on Tuesdays," I joked, leading him down the arched hallway toward the formal dining room. "Today we’re using the more subtle, laser-guided perimeter sensors."
As we entered the dining room, the heavy mahogany table was already set with crystal glassware, heavy silver cutlery, and a spread of roasted meats and Italian delicacies that looked fit for a Roman emperor. Emily was already seated at the far end, wearing a soft blue dress that made her look radiant, and the moment she saw Mark, she practically vaulted out of her chair, running across the room to throw her arms around his neck. Mark caught her clumsily, burying his face in her shoulder as they embraced with a desperate, genuine affection that made my chest tighten with an unexpected pang of sympathy. Then, from the doorway connecting the study, Luca Moretti stepped into the room. The temperature in the space dropped instantly by twenty degrees. Luca didn't shout; he didn't pull a weapon. He just walked slowly toward the table, his gray eyes locked onto the young history teacher with a predatory, unnerving intensity that could have made a seasoned general wet his pants. Mark gently pulled away from Emily, standing up straight like a soldier facing a firing squad.
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"Mr. Moretti," Mark stammered, offering a hand that was shaking so visibly it looked like it was vibrating. "Thank you for having me. I... I brought a bottle of Chianti. It’s not... well, it’s from the local liquor store down the street, but the guy said it was a good year—" Luca ignored the outstretched hand entirely. He walked up until he was standing a mere foot away from the terrified teacher, towering over him by half a foot. Luca reached out slowly, adjusting the lapel of Mark’s cheap off-the-rack tweed jacket with deliberate, agonizing slowness. "A history teacher," Luca murmured, his voice a low, gravelly hum that resonated through the floorboards. "You teach teenagers about dead men who made bad decisions in mud and blood. Tell me, professor... do you think you’re equipped to handle a living woman who comes with a very complicated, very dangerous family tree?" Mark swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, but to his credit, he didn't look away from Luca’s terrifying gaze. He took a deep, shaky breath and straightened his shoulders. "Mr. Moretti, I don't know much about syndicates, and I don't care about shipping routes or offshore accounts," Mark said clearly, his voice steadying at the end. "All I know is that I love Emily, and I love our baby. And if I have to face a hundred armed men or a dozen interrogation rooms to prove that, I’ll do it every single day until I die."
For three agonizing seconds, the room was dead silent. Even the grandfather clock in the corner seemed to hold its breath. Then, slowly, a strange, grim smile spread across Luca Moretti’s face. He clapped a heavy, bone-crushing hand onto Mark’s shoulder, nearly sending the teacher sprawling. "Good," Luca barkz-grunted, turning toward the head of the table. "Because if you ever make her cry, I’ll have Claire reassign you to a middle school in Siberia where the history books only have one chapter and it’s all about failure. Sit down, professor. Dinner is getting cold." Emily let out a long, shaky breath, sinking back into her chair with a radiant, tearful smile, while Mark collapsed into the seat beside her, looking like a man who had just survived a plunge over Niagara Falls in a wooden barrel.
