Chapter 2 - The Suit Luca Ordered for His Own Funeral
The strange thing about Luca Marini’s funeral suit was that he had ordered it before he died.
Megan realized that at 2:13 the following morning.
She was sitting in the guest bedroom of Dean’s penthouse with Luca’s measurements spread across the bed while rain moved against the windows.
Dean had forbidden her from going back to the shop alone.
Megan had responded by informing him that “forbidden” was not a word she appreciated.
They had compromised.
She stayed under protection.
He stopped talking like a prison warden.
Mostly.
Now she stared at the carbon copy of Luca’s order form.
Black wool.
Peak lapels.
Silk lining.
Hand-finished buttonholes.
Delivery date:
January 18.
Three days after his death.
But handwritten beneath the normal measurements was something Megan had originally assumed was Luca being eccentric.
Inside left pocket: double canvas. No opening. Stitch completely closed.
She frowned.
Tailors built hidden pockets.
Clients paid ridiculous amounts for them.
But a sealed compartment made no sense.
Unless it wasn't supposed to be accessed while the owner was wearing it.
Dean entered without knocking, then stopped himself.
“Sorry.”
Megan looked up.
“You’re learning.”
“Painfully.”
She showed him order.
“Luca asked for something hidden inside the jacket.”
Dean took paper.
“Money?”
“Too thin.”
“Drugs?”
“Not enough space.”
“What then?”
“Documents.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Did you finish the jacket?”
“Almost. It’s at the shop.”
Dean immediately reached for phone.
Megan stood.
“No.”
He looked.
“No what?”
“You are not sending your men to tear apart Jimmy’s business.”
“I wasn’t going to tear it apart.”
“You were thinking it very loudly.”
A reluctant shadow of amusement.
Megan grabbed coat.
“I know where the stitching is.”
“You’re not going.”
“Dean.”
“No.”
“You can either come with me or spend the next twenty minutes realizing I took the service elevator.”
His expression turned almost offended.
“You threaten badly.”
“I sew for rich people. Passive aggression is an occupational skill.”
They went.
The shop was dark.
Jimmy had gone home under Dean’s insistence that he take “paid emergency leave,” which had terrified the sixty-year-old tailor more than any direct threat probably would have.
Dante waited outside.
Dean entered with Megan.
She found Luca’s unfinished black jacket hanging beneath clear plastic.
Nothing about it looked extraordinary.
She laid it on cutting table.
“Here.”
She opened lining seam carefully.
Dean watched her hands.
Small scissors.
Quick stitches.
Precision.
“You really love this.”
Megan glanced.
“What?”
“Your work.”
“It’s the only thing in my life that usually does what I tell it.”
“Fabric has that advantage.”
“So do mafia kings, apparently.”
His mouth shifted.
Then seam opened.
Inside was a narrow waterproof packet.
Megan stopped.
Dean reached.
She caught his wrist.
“Gloves.”
He looked at her.
“Fingerprints.”
“You’re annoyingly useful.”
“I survived ten years without organized crime.”
They gloved.
Dean opened packet.
Inside were three photographs, a keycard, and a folded shipping manifest.
The first photograph showed Luca beside Councilman Robert Keane, a politician publicly famous for anti-corruption speeches.
Second showed Lorenzo shaking hands with a man Dean recognized immediately.
“Elias Varga.”
“Who?”
“Runs customs enforcement at Pier Nine.”
“That sounds legal.”
“It isn't the way Lorenzo uses him.”
Third photograph showed something different.
A dead man.
Face bruised.
Hands bound.
Megan looked away.
Dean didn't.
“That’s Patrick Doyle.”
“Who?”
“My accountant.”
“Was?”
“Disappeared eight months ago.”
Megan felt cold.
The shipping manifest listed container numbers and delivery windows.
But not drugs.
Not weapons.
The commodity field said:
Textiles.
Megan frowned.
“These codes are wrong.”
Dean looked.
“How do you know?”
“Because I order imported fabric every week.”
She pointed.
“This customs code says raw silk. Weight is forty-two thousand pounds.”
“So?”
“That much raw silk would fill half a warehouse, not one container.”
“What's inside?”
“I don't know.”
She studied company name.
Bellmere Fabric Imports.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Dean asked.
“Jimmy buys Italian wool through Bellmere.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
Dean's eyes hardened.
A legitimate tailor shop might have unknowingly become cover for Marini shipments.
Megan whispered:
“Did Luca choose us because of this?”
Maybe he hadn't entered her shop randomly.
Maybe the suit wasn't simply vanity.
Maybe he needed hidden compartment built by someone outside his organization.
Then she found something written inside packet flap.
If I die, give D.R. the key.
Dean Russo.
D.R.
Dean stared.
“Luca wanted you to find this.”
“Apparently.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
The keycard belonged to Harbor Crown Hotel, Room 1106.
Dante arrived when Dean called.
“Boss?”
“Get Marco. Quietly.”
Megan started removing gloves.
Dean said:
“You're staying here.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“We discussed forbidden.”
“This isn't about control.”
“It sounds exactly like control.”
“There may be armed men in hotel room.”
“And the packet was sewn inside a suit I made.”
Dean took slow breath.
“Megan.”
“If Luca wanted you to find something, why hide it through me?”
That stopped him.
She continued.
“He chose my shop. My hands. My stitching. Maybe I’m part of message.”
Dean hated logic when it worked against him.
She could tell.
Twenty minutes later they entered Harbor Crown through underground garage.
Room 1106 was empty.
No bodies.
No trap.
Just suitcase on bed.
Inside were dozens of fabric swatches.
Megan recognized expensive Italian mills.
Each had handwritten number.
Dean looked confused.
She didn't.
“These aren't style notes.”
“What?”
“They're routing markers.”
She sorted.
Red wool.
Navy wool.
Gray cashmere.
Different suppliers.
Different shipping origins.
Each linked to manifest container.
Luca had hidden trafficking records inside tailoring samples.
Then Megan found envelope bearing her name.
MEGAN SHAW.
Her hands turned cold.
Dean immediately stepped closer.
“You don't have to open it.”
“Yes, I do.”
Inside:
**Megan,
If you are reading this, something went wrong. I chose your shop because Jimmy never asks questions and because you are precise enough to notice what other people miss. I did not intend to involve you beyond making the suit.**
She stopped.
Luca had written this before attacking her.
The contradiction sickened.
A man could plan to protect someone on Monday and try to violate her boundaries on Tuesday.
People were not simplified by death.
She continued.
The cufflink contains the final account number. Do not give it to Lorenzo. Give it to Russo.
Dean's face hardened.
The cufflink.
Marco had found one.
Dean had used matching one as bluff.
Megan looked.
“Where is Luca’s real cufflink?”
Dean's jaw tightened.
“Marco had it.”
“Had?”
He called.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Dante checked security.
Marco had left penthouse forty minutes earlier.
No authorization.
No explanation.
Dean became very still.
“Find him.”
Dante moved.
Megan read final line.
If Russo receives the cufflink, he’ll understand who betrayed his father.
Dean stopped breathing.
His father had died twelve years ago in an ambush blamed on Marinis.
Megan looked at him.
“This isn't about Luca anymore.”
“No.”
Dean stared toward hotel window.
“It may never have been.”
May you like
And somewhere in the city, Marco—the man Dean had trusted for nine years—was carrying a silver cufflink capable of reopening the oldest murder in the Russo family.
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