Chapter 6 - A Wolf at the DoorLuca Moretti entered the penthouse smiling.
That was the first thing Lyra hated about him.
The second was how normal he looked.
She had expected another Noah: scars, darkness, violence contained beneath expensive fabric.
Luca looked like a man who chaired museums.
Silver hair.
Perfect teeth.
Navy cashmere overcoat.
A pleasant, almost paternal face that belonged on charity brochures.
He walked into the living room with his hands visible.
“Noah.”
“Uncle.”
No embrace.
No handshake.
Nothing.
Lyra stood near the kitchen island with Paulie positioned three feet behind her.
Luca’s gaze found her.
“Miss Bell.”
The hairs rose along her arms.
“You know my name.”
“I knew your father.”
Noah took one step forward.
“Careful.”
Luca sighed.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“That temper.”
“You haven’t seen my temper.”
“I changed your diapers.”
“And now you’re testing how close you can stand to your own funeral.”
Luca’s smile faded.
He removed his gloves slowly.
“I came because Vincent Caruso has declared a private vendetta.”
“Dominic violated treaty.”
“Dominic was stupid.”
“Dominic was armed.”
“I’m not defending him.”
Luca looked at Lyra again.
“I’m trying to prevent a war over a tailor.”
Noah’s voice dropped.
“Say that again.”
Lyra stepped forward before the temperature could fall further.
“Why did you know my father?”
Luca watched her.
“Antonio Bell was one of the finest cutters in the city.”
“And?”
“And occasionally men spoke inside his shop.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
She held his gaze.
“Were you part of the Stitch?”
For the first time, Luca’s composure broke.
Barely.
But Lyra saw it.
Noah saw it too.
Luca’s eyes shifted toward his nephew.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“My father.”
“Your father is dead.”
“Recording.”
Silence.
It lasted two seconds.
Too long.
Luca smiled again, but the expression no longer reached his eyes.
“Antonio always was sentimental.”
Noah moved faster than Lyra could track.
One moment he stood five feet away.
The next, Luca was slammed against the wall.
Noah’s forearm pressed against his throat.
Paulie did not move.
Neither did Lyra.
“Did you sell them?” Noah whispered.
Luca’s face reddened slightly.
“You’re believing a dead tailor over your own blood?”
“I’m asking once.”
“Noah.”
“Did you sell the Stitch?”
Luca’s pleasant mask vanished.
What appeared beneath it was colder than Noah.
Older.
More practiced.
“You have no idea what your father’s world was like.”
Noah pressed harder.
“Answer.”
“Your father would have lost everything.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“The Moretti family was surrounded. Caruso wanted Queens. Serrano wanted the docks. The federal task force was tightening every month. Your father believed loyalty would save us.”
“And you didn’t.”
“I believed survival would.”
Lyra felt something sick settle in her stomach.
“You did it,” she whispered.
Luca looked at her.
“I made choices.”
“My father spent the rest of his life hiding because of you.”
“No. Your father spent the rest of his life alive because I allowed it.”
Noah hit him.
Not a warning slap.
A brutal fist to the mouth.
Luca crashed into the wall and slid half a step before Noah grabbed his coat again.
Blood appeared at the corner of his lip.
“Noah!”
Lyra grabbed Noah’s arm.
He stopped.
Not because Luca mattered.
Because she had touched him.
She felt it immediately.
The obedience.
The restraint.
That frightened her almost as much as his violence.
“Don’t,” she said.
His chest rose and fell.
Luca wiped his mouth.
“You see?” he murmured. “This is why she’s dangerous.”
Noah turned.
“She is the only reason you are currently breathing.”
Luca laughed softly.
“No. She’s the reason you’re weak enough to make mistakes.”
Lyra’s grip tightened.
Noah did not move.
Luca straightened his coat.
“Vincent knows about the ledger.”
“How?” Lyra asked.
“Because the person who burned your shop saw Noah recover the box.”
Paulie swore quietly.
Luca continued.
“Vincent believes Antonio kept copies of the Stitch records. If those records expose the old agreements, half his legitimate empire collapses.”
“Why tell us?” Noah asked.
“Because Vincent has become inconvenient.”
Lyra stared.
“You worked together.”
“Twenty-two years ago.”
“You killed people together.”
“I never said I was a good man, Miss Bell.”
“At least Noah doesn’t pretend.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Luca’s face.
“That is precisely why he won’t survive politics.”
Noah released him.
“Get out.”
“I came to offer you the East Side.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You should.”
“I want Vincent.”
“They are the same thing.”
Noah leaned close.
“No. One is business. One is personal.”
Luca studied him.
Then looked at Lyra.
“You’ve done something nobody has managed since he was sixteen.”
“What?”
“Made him predictable.”
Noah’s voice became deadly quiet.
“Leave.”
Luca walked toward the elevator.
Before the doors closed, he turned.
“Antonio knew the Stitch could not survive forever. Ask yourself why he preserved the book instead of destroying it.”
The doors slid shut.
Lyra looked down at the ledger.
That question stayed with her.
Why keep evidence capable of destroying everyone?
That evening, Noah ordered three additional guards.
Lyra objected.
He compromised at two.
It was absurd that this counted as progress.
They sat together at the dining table studying her father’s ledger.
Once Lyra understood that clothing descriptions were code, patterns emerged.
Fabric meant family.
Color meant district.
Buttons indicated money.
Measurements were dates.
Her father had hidden criminal history in tailoring language.
“This,” Lyra said, pointing to a recurring entry, “shows up every six months.”
Noah leaned closer.
“Black herringbone. Forty-eight chest. Thirty-six waist. Six horn buttons.”
“Same measurements?”
“Every time.”
“Person?”
“No. Accounts.”
She turned several pages.
“Dad always wrote customer measurements in chest-waist-inseam-sleeve order. But this only has two numbers. Forty-eight, thirty-six.”
Noah stared.
“Forty-eight thirty-six.”
“Could be a locker.”
“Coordinates?”
“Account ending?”
They found the answer near midnight.
One page contained no measurements at all.
Only a small drawing of a spool of thread.
Lyra recognized it.
“Garment warehouse.”
“What?”
“My father rented storage when the shop basement flooded. Old textile warehouse on Mercer.”
Noah stood immediately.
“No.”
She blinked.
“What do you mean, no?”
“You are not going.”
“We finally find something and your first response is—”
“My first response is that the last place associated with your father was set on fire.”
She stood too.
“And if I know how he hid things?”
“I’ll take pictures.”
“What if it requires tailoring knowledge?”
“I’ll bring a tailor.”
Her mouth fell open.
“A tailor?”
Noah realized his mistake.
Lyra pointed toward the elevator.
“Go ahead.”
“Lyra.”
“Find another tailor.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Maybe the Midtown guy Dominic mentioned is available.”
Paulie, standing near the window, slowly turned his back.
Noah rubbed a hand over his face.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet apparently your property.”
He flinched.
She saw it.
Good.
Noah stepped closer.
“I shouldn’t have called you that.”
The anger drained out of her too quickly.
“What?”
“In the car. After Dominic. Property.”
He looked uncomfortable.
Noah Moretti, capo of the west side, looked uncomfortable apologizing.
It was bizarrely endearing.
“You’re terrible at this,” she said.
“I don’t apologize.”
“I noticed.”
His hand lifted.
Stopped.
Again, he waited.
Lyra rolled her eyes and leaned into him.
“You’re learning.”
“Don’t spread it around.”
They went to the warehouse together.
At two in the morning.
Because apparently healthy relationships were not available in their zip code.
The warehouse sat abandoned near the river, windows black, bricks damp with mist.
Paulie entered first.
Two guards followed.
Clear.
Inside were mountains of decaying garment boxes and broken metal racks.
Lyra used the flashlight on her phone.
Her father’s old storage unit was on the third floor.
Unit 4836.
Forty-eight.
Thirty-six.
The ledger numbers.
Noah broke the rusted lock.
Inside sat one dress form.
One wooden chair.
One garment bag.
Nothing else.
Lyra approached the garment bag.
A handwritten tag hung from the zipper.
FOR L.B.
Her initials.
Lyra Bell.
Her breath stopped.
She opened it.
Inside was a cream-colored women’s suit.
Never worn.
Perfectly preserved.
Her father had made it in her adult size.
“How did he know?”
Noah stood behind her.
“Know what?”
“My measurements. He made this years before he died.”
She touched the lapel.
Something stiff sat inside.
“Another pocket.”
She reached beneath the lining.
Her fingers found paper.
A map.
Several addresses marked in red.
And one name.
VINCENT CARUSO — SEPTEMBER 8 — PORT 14.
Noah checked his watch.
September 7.
Tomorrow.
“What happens September eighth?” Lyra asked.
Noah’s face hardened.
Before he could answer, Paulie shouted from the hallway.
“DOWN!”
Gunfire shattered the windows.
Noah threw Lyra behind the concrete wall.
Bullets tore through garment boxes.
Dust and fabric exploded through the room.
Paulie returned fire.
One guard screamed.
Noah dragged Lyra toward the rear stairwell.
“Stay behind me.”
“We’re on the third floor!”
“Then we go down.”
Another volley struck the wall.
They reached the stairs.
The metal door slammed shut behind them.
Halfway down, Lyra heard footsteps coming up.
“Both sides,” she whispered.
Noah stopped.
His gun lifted.
For one terrible second, they were trapped.
Then Lyra saw the industrial laundry chute beside the landing.
Her father had once complained that the warehouse used it to drop fabric scraps.
She grabbed Noah.
“There.”
His expression said absolutely not.
“We’ll break our legs.”
“Better than bullets.”
Footsteps closed in.
Noah cursed.
He ripped open the chute.
“You first.”
Lyra climbed inside.
Darkness swallowed her.
Noah followed.
They fell.
Canvas scraps slowed the drop but did not make it pleasant.
Lyra landed in a mountain of ancient fabric and lost every ounce of air in her lungs.
Noah crashed beside her.
For one second, everything was silent.
Then he laughed.
She stared at him.
Actually laughed.
Low.
Breathless.
Almost boyish.
“You think this is funny?”
“You just threw the capo of the west side down a laundry chute.”
“You were about to get shot.”
He looked at her.
“Worth it.”
She hated how warm that made her feel.
Paulie found them six minutes later.
They escaped through the loading dock.
Two attackers were captured alive.
One carried a Caruso-family phone.
The other carried something worse.
A Moretti security badge.
Someone inside Noah’s organization had given them access.
May you like
And suddenly Luca’s warning sounded less like manipulation.
There was a traitor in Noah’s house.
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