Chapter 9 – THE GETAWAY DRIVER AND THE BLOOD OATH

I stared at the faded Polaroid on the mahogany desk, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Twenty-five years ago.

My father, David Collins. The gentle, deaf mechanic who spent his weekends fixing neighborhood bicycles and reading books on the porch.

Standing arm-in-arm with Lorenzo Moretti and Dante Rossi.

My mind spun, trying to reconcile the man who raised me with the young, confident man in the photograph, leaning against a muscle car with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

I carefully turned the photograph over.

Written on the back in faded, black ink was a single sentence:

The night the Morettis paid in blood. Owe Collins a life.

I felt sick. I grabbed the photograph, stuffed it into my apron pocket, and ran out of the office.

The mansion was completely silent. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed 2:00 AM. I needed to wait until morning. I needed to let Luca sleep.

But I couldn’t.

I walked to the kitchen, poured two cups of black coffee, and walked toward Luca’s private study.

The light under the door was still on.

I knocked softly.

“Come in,” Luca’s voice answered, thick with exhaustion.

I pushed the door open. Luca was sitting at his massive desk, rubbing his temples, reviewing a stack of security documents. He looked up, surprised to see me.

“Emily. You should be sleeping. Today was… a lifetime.”

“I know, sir,” I said, walking to the desk and setting the coffee down. “But I found something in Vanessa’s office. I think you need to see it.”

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the Polaroid, and placed it face-up on the leather blotter.

Luca looked at it.

He froze.

He picked up the photograph, his eyes scanning the faces of the three men. He recognized his father instantly. He recognized Rossi.

But he pointed to the third man. “Who is this?”

“That’s my father, Mr. Moretti,” I whispered.

Luca’s head snapped up. “Your father? David Collins?”

“Yes, sir.”

Luca turned the photo over and read the inscription on the back. Owe Collins a life.

He slowly lowered the photo. The exhaustion in his eyes was replaced by a sharp, burning intensity.

“My father died ten years ago,” Luca said slowly. “He never mentioned the name David Collins. He never told me he owed a life debt to anyone.”

“I didn’t know either, sir,” I said, my voice trembling. “My dad told me he lost his hearing in a factory accident when he was twenty. He said a boiler exploded. He never talked about his past.”

Luca stood up. He walked over to a massive steel safe built into the wall of his study. He spun the dial, pulled the heavy door open, and pulled out a thick, leather-bound journal.

“This is my father’s personal ledger,” Luca said, bringing it back to the desk. “He recorded every debt, every favor, every betrayal in this book.”

He flipped the pages, his eyes scanning the dates from twenty-five years ago.

He stopped on a page dated October 14th, 1999.

Luca read the page in silence. As he read, his face turned completely pale.

He looked up at me.

“Emily,” Luca breathed, shock radiating from his voice. “Your father wasn’t just a mechanic. He was my father’s personal getaway driver.”

I grabbed the edge of the desk to steady myself. “A getaway driver?”

“The best in the city,” Luca read from the journal. “My father writes here that David Collins was a ghost behind the wheel. But on the night of October 14th… there was a hit.”

I held my breath.

“The Rossi family planted a car bomb in my father’s vehicle,” Luca continued, his voice tight. “My father was supposed to get in the car. But David noticed the wire under the chassis. He shoved my father away just as the bomb detonated.”

Tears sprang to my eyes.

“My father writes that the blast threw David into a brick wall,” Luca whispered. “He suffered massive head trauma. He survived… but the explosion ruptured both of his eardrums permanently.”

A sob broke from my lips.

My father hadn’t lost his hearing in a factory accident. He lost it saving Luca’s father’s life.

“My father swore a blood oath to take care of David forever,” Luca read, his hands gripping the edges of the book. “He wrote that he set up a trust fund for him. Two million dollars. A reward for his sacrifice.”

I wiped my eyes, confused. “Mr. Moretti, we grew up poor. My dad worked double shifts fixing cars just to pay for my school uniforms. We never saw a dime of any trust fund.”

Luca’s eyes narrowed into dark, lethal slits.

“Because someone stole it,” Luca growled.

He turned the page of the ledger.

“My father appointed a trustee to manage the Collins fund,” Luca said, his voice dropping to a terrifying calm. “Someone he trusted implicitly. Someone who was supposed to deliver the money to your father, but instead, kept it, and forced your deaf, disabled father to run illegal packages for the Rossis to keep him quiet.”

“Who?” I asked, my blood running cold.

Luca looked at the name in the book.

“Silas,” Luca whispered.

My jaw dropped. Silas. The elderly, grandfatherly capo who had sat at the dining table tonight. The man who bounced Leo on his knee at family gatherings. The most trusted advisor in the Moretti family.

“Silas stole your family’s life,” Luca said, closing the ledger with a heavy thud. “And he is sleeping in the guest house right now.”