Chapter 2 - THE SECOND STITCH
“How many?”
Luca Moretti’s question landed harder than a shout.
I looked at the ruined cuff, then at the matte-black tracker sitting on the polished table between us.
“I don’t know.”
One of his bodyguards swore under his breath.
Vivien immediately seized on my answer.
“There. She doesn’t know.” Her voice rose with each word, relief disguising itself as outrage. “She finds one little device and suddenly everyone in this room is a criminal?”
Luca didn’t even look at her.
“Find out.”
He was talking to me.
I swallowed.
“Mr. Moretti, I’m a tailor.”
“You found what six security professionals missed.”
“Because someone sewed it into your sleeve.”
“Then look at the rest.”
I glanced toward Bastion.
He had gone so pale that even his silver-framed glasses looked too dark against his face.
“Bastion?”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
That frightened me more than the guns.
I had worked for Bastion Vera for almost four years. He could insult a seam allowance for fifteen uninterrupted minutes. He once reduced a fashion editor to tears because she called hand-padded lapels “stiff.”
Silence was not part of his personality.
“Bastion,” I repeated. “Who handled the suit after final press?”
“No one.”
His answer came too fast.
Luca heard it too.
His nearest bodyguard, a thick-necked man named Marco, moved one step closer.
Bastion lifted both hands.
“I mean no one from my staff.”
“That wasn’t the question,” Luca said.
Bastion looked at the locked doors.
Then at Vivien.
Her expression stayed perfectly composed.
But I saw her fingers tighten around the diamond bracelet on her wrist.
I looked back at Luca’s jacket.
The cuff had been opened roughly, but whoever had hidden the tracker had known enough tailoring to make the alteration disappear under casual inspection.
Not enough to fool another tailor.
Enough to fool everyone else.
I ran my fingers lightly over the sleeve.
Not touching the fabric.
Feeling the construction through it.
The left cuff was wrong.
But now that I knew someone had interfered with the garment, I stopped looking at the suit as clothing.
I looked at it as evidence.
“Turn off the music,” I said.
Everyone stared at me.
Only then did I realize soft piano music had been playing through hidden speakers all afternoon.
Luca lifted his eyes.
Marco tapped something on his phone.
The music died.
The room became brutally quiet.
I bent closer to the jacket.
“What are you doing?” Vivien asked.
“Listening.”
“To fabric?”
“Yes.”
She gave a short, humorless laugh.
I ignored her.
I lifted the jacket gently and moved it.
Something faint clicked inside the collar.
Once.
I froze.
Then I moved it again.
Click.
Marco drew his weapon.
“Don’t,” I said sharply.
He stopped.
I looked at Luca.
“May I open the collar?”
His eyes hardened.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re about to tell me my wedding suit has another surprise.”
“I think it does.”
Vivien whispered something under her breath.
Bastion looked ready to collapse.
I took my smallest seam scissors and slipped the point beneath the hand stitching at the underside of the collar.
This stitching was better.
Far better than the cuff.
Whoever had done this section knew tailoring.
I cut three threads.
Then four.
The collar loosened.
A thin rectangular object slid into my palm.
It was no bigger than a stick of gum.
Marco stepped forward.
“Put it down.”
I did.
One of Luca’s security men approached with a black case and some kind of handheld scanner.
After several seconds, he looked up.
“It’s transmitting.”
Vivien backed away.
“To what?”
The security man frowned at the device.
“Unknown. Short range at the moment.”
“What does it do?” Luca asked.
“Could be audio. Could be location confirmation. Could be—”
“Could be?” Luca repeated.
The man stopped.
Luca’s expression didn’t change, but the entire room seemed to shrink around him.
“I pay people,” he said softly, “so I do not have to hear the phrase could be.”
The man swallowed.
“We’ll isolate it.”
Luca’s gaze returned to me.
“Continue.”
I stared at him.
“You still want me cutting this apart?”
“I’m beginning to think the suit is worth less intact.”
That almost made me smile.
Almost.
I removed the jacket’s collar lining.
Nothing else.
Then the right cuff.
Clean.
Inside pocket.
Clean.
Breast pocket.
Clean.
Buttonholes.
Nothing.
I was beginning to think we had found everything when my thumb stopped over the lower left front panel.
The drape was wrong.
Not visibly.
Not enough for anyone standing five feet away.
But expensive wool behaves like water. It falls naturally unless something interrupts it.
This fabric hesitated.
“Bastion.”
He flinched.
“What?”
“Did you reinforce this pocket?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
I pressed the fabric.
Something flat rested between the canvas and outer wool.
Luca saw my expression.
“Open it.”
This time I didn’t argue.
Five minutes later, I removed a folded piece of translucent material from between the layers.
Not electronics.
Paper.
Or something like paper.
Marco unfolded it carefully.
Three lines had been printed across it.
SATURDAY
11:40 P.M.
NORTH SERVICE EXIT
The wedding was Saturday.
Tomorrow night.
Vivien made a sound that was almost a gasp.
Luca finally turned to her.
“What happens at eleven forty?”
“Nothing.”
“Think carefully.”
“I don’t know!”
The first crack appeared in her composure.
Luca stepped off the platform.
Without the jacket, in only his white shirt and black trousers, he should have looked less intimidating.
He didn’t.
He walked toward Vivien until only a few feet separated them.
“The reception begins at eight.”
“Yes.”
“The fireworks are scheduled for eleven thirty.”
She said nothing.
“The west terrace fills with guests.”
Still nothing.
“And the north service exit becomes the only vehicle route not visible from the terrace.”
Marco looked sharply at Luca.
Vivien’s face lost color.
“I didn’t plan the security.”
“No,” Luca said. “You planned the fireworks.”
Her lips parted.
Nobody spoke.
Then the silver-haired adviser near the champagne finally stepped forward.
“Luca.”
His voice was calm.
Older.
Measured.
His name was Enzo Bellini. I knew that because Bastion had spent the entire morning reminding the staff that Mr. Bellini had been with the Moretti family for thirty years and was not to be kept waiting for anything.
Enzo looked at the paper.
“We should move you tonight.”
“No.”
“Luca—”
“No one knows we found these.”
Enzo understood before anyone else did.
“You want them to believe the plan is still active.”
Luca’s eyes remained on Vivien.
“I want everyone to believe tomorrow happens exactly as expected.”
Vivien stared at him.
“You cannot seriously intend to continue the wedding.”
A strange silence followed.
Then Luca smiled.
It was the first time I had seen him smile.
I immediately wished he hadn’t.
It wasn’t warm.
It was the expression of a man who had just realized his enemy had stepped exactly where he wanted.
“I intend,” he said, “to give whoever arranged this the best seat in the house.”
Bastion suddenly grabbed the edge of the fitting table.
His knees buckled.
I caught his elbow before he hit the floor.
“Bastion?”
He pulled away from me as though my hand burned him.
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Luca crossed the room.
Bastion backed away.
Marco blocked him.
Luca stopped directly in front of my employer.
“Who touched the suit?”
Bastion’s breathing became shallow.
“No one.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I don’t know.”
“Also wrong.”
Vivien spoke quickly.
“Luca, Bastion has dressed senators, actors, half the men in this city. You cannot threaten him because one employee found—”
“Be quiet.”
She went still.
I had never heard a person silence another human being with two words so effectively.
Luca looked at Bastion.
“Your hands are shaking.”
“I’m frightened.”
“Of me?”
Bastion’s eyes flicked toward the table.
Then toward Vivien.
Then somewhere behind her.
Enzo.
It lasted less than a second.
But I saw it.
So did Luca.
“I’m frightened of the situation,” Bastion corrected.
My stomach tightened.
“Bastion,” I said quietly, “tell him.”
His eyes met mine.
There was shame in them.
And fear.
Not the fear of losing his business.
Something deeper.
“Tell him what?” Vivien snapped.
Bastion closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he looked twenty years older.
“My daughter disappeared Monday.”
The room changed.
Even Luca’s expression shifted.
Barely.
But it shifted.
Bastion continued.
“She studies architecture in Boston. Twenty-two years old. On Monday night, she didn’t return to her apartment.”
His voice broke.
“I received a photograph Tuesday morning.”
I felt cold.
“What photograph?” Marco asked.
“Camille tied to a chair.”
Vivien stepped back.
Bastion’s face crumpled.
“They said she would come home if I followed instructions.”
I stared at the jacket.
“You opened the collar?”
He shook his head violently.
“No. I swear.”
“The cuff?”
“No.”
“Then what did they make you do?”
He looked at Luca.
“They made me allow someone into the workroom.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Who?”
“I never saw his face. He came through the freight entrance wearing one of our garment courier uniforms. He knew the code. He knew exactly which camera had been disconnected.”
Marco cursed.
Luca said nothing.
Bastion covered his face.
“He was alone with the suit for eleven minutes.”
“Why the red stitch?” I asked.
Bastion looked at me.
“I don’t know.”
I did.
Or at least I thought I did.
I returned to the cuff and examined the thread under the brighter work light.
It wasn’t standard sewing silk.
It was cheap polyester.
Bright red.
The sort of thread someone would grab when they had seconds instead of minutes.
A panic stitch.
But something bothered me.
If the intruder had eleven minutes, why panic?
Unless—
“Someone interrupted him.”
Everyone turned toward me.
“What?” Luca asked.
“The person who planted these didn’t finish.”
I pointed to the crude cuff repair.
“This isn’t the work of the same person who closed the collar. The collar is clean. Skilled. Careful. The cuff is rushed.”
Marco understood.
“Two people?”
“Or one person who suddenly ran out of time.”
Luca looked at Bastion.
“Who entered the workroom last night?”
Bastion frowned.
“No one.”
“Think.”
“I was downstairs. My assistant had gone home.”
I suddenly remembered something.
“Bastion.”
He looked at me.
“Your cleaning staff.”
His eyes widened.
“One woman. Rosa.”
“Did she work last night?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
He reached for his phone.
Marco caught his wrist.
“No calls.”
One of the other guards checked a tablet.
“Rosa Delgado. Fifty-eight. Cleaning contractor. Clocked out at 10:17 p.m.”
“What time was the courier inside?” I asked.
Bastion’s voice dropped.
“Ten oh eight to ten nineteen.”
“She saw him.”
Luca immediately turned.
“Find her.”
The guard walked away.
Vivien paced near the mirrors.
“This is madness.”
I looked at her.
She looked back.
Something about her was wrong.
Not just fear.
Recognition.
Her eyes kept returning to the red thread.
Not the device.
The thread.
I followed her gaze.
Then I noticed something hanging beneath the edge of her diamond bracelet.
A tiny strand.
Red.
I stepped toward her.
She recoiled.
“What are you doing?”
“Your bracelet.”
“What about it?”
“Take it off.”
Her face hardened.
“You have lost your mind.”
I looked at Luca.
“She has red thread caught in the clasp.”
Every gun in the room seemed to become heavier.
Vivien stared at me with hatred.
Slowly, she removed the bracelet.
Marco took it.
A short piece of red thread was tangled around the hinge.
Exactly the same shade as the panic stitch.
Bastion whispered, “Oh, God.”
Vivien shook her head.
“No.”
Luca said nothing.
“I have no idea how that got there.”
Still nothing.
“Luca, look at me.”
He did.
For the first time, she seemed to wish he hadn’t.
“I did not put that device in your suit.”
He stepped toward her.
“I believe you.”
Her shoulders dropped.
Then Luca continued.
“I believe you didn’t put it there yourself.”
The relief vanished.
Vivien’s face went white.
And for the first time since I entered that penthouse, I saw something behind her polished arrogance.
Pure terror.
She whispered, “You don’t understand.”
Luca’s eyes became stone.
“Then explain.”
Vivien looked around the locked room.
At Bastion.
At Enzo.
At the armed guards.
Finally at me.
Her voice was barely audible.
“If I tell you, my sister dies.”
And somewhere across the room, a phone began to ring.
It wasn’t mine.
May you like
It wasn’t Luca’s.
It was coming from inside the champagne bucket.
