Chapter 8 – THE DAWN ON MAPLE STREET

The black rose looked like a bloodstain on the white wooden steps of the porch.

“Stay in the car,” Dante commanded. He drew a sleek, suppressed handgun from his shoulder holster. Marco did the same.

“No,” I said, my voice shaking but resolute. “I know this house. Every creaky floorboard, every blind spot. If someone is in there, I know where they’d hide.”

Dante looked at me. He saw the fierce maternal protectiveness in my posture. I wasn’t going to sit in a car while thugs tore apart my mother’s legacy.

“Keep behind me,” Dante said softly. “Do exactly what I say.”

He turned to Olivia. “Lock the doors. Do not open them for anyone but me or your mother.”

Olivia nodded, tears in her eyes, clutching the door handle tightly.

I stepped out into the cool night air. The scent of pine and damp earth filled my lungs—the smell of my childhood. I followed Dante and Marco up the walkway. Dante stepped over the black rose without glancing at it.

Marco took the lead, pushing the front door fully open. He swept the living room with the barrel of his gun.

“Clear,” Marco whispered.

The house was dark, illuminated only by the streetlights filtering through the sheer curtains. The living room was a mess. Sofa cushions were slashed open. Books were thrown off the shelves. The Moretti men had been looking for the safe.

“They don’t know where it is,” I whispered. “Eleanor said we’d have to tear the house down to find it. They were searching blindly.”

Dante nodded. “Where is the sewing room?”

“Upstairs. At the end of the hall.”

We moved silently up the carpeted stairs. I directed Dante past the squeaky third step. We reached the top landing. The door to the sewing room was ajar.

Marco kicked the door open, sweeping the room.

“Clear,” Marco said, lowering his weapon slightly.

The room smelled of old fabric and lavender. My mother’s antique Singer sewing machine was knocked over, exactly as Olivia had described. Beneath it, a wide oak floorboard was cracked and splintered.

I rushed forward and fell to my knees. I wedged my fingers into the crack and pulled. The heavy board groaned and popped loose, revealing a dark, dusty cavity between the joists.

I reached inside. My fingers brushed against cold, heavy metal.

“Help me,” I gasped.

Dante crouched beside me. Together, we hauled a heavy, fireproof steel lockbox out of the floorboards. It was covered in decades of dust.

“Is it locked?” Dante asked.

I looked at the dial. “It’s a combination.” I closed my eyes, thinking of my mother. “Her wedding anniversary. 04-12-68.”

I spun the dial. Click. Click. Click.

I pulled the heavy latch. The box popped open.

Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, were thick stacks of bearer bonds. And sitting on top of the bonds was a sealed legal envelope. It was labeled: The Catherine Rose Lawson Trust. Original Deeds.

I let out a sob of absolute relief. I had it. The proof. The money. My freedom.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked loudly in the hallway behind us.

Dante spun around, raising his weapon instantly.

A massive man in a leather jacket stepped out of the shadows of the guest bedroom. He was holding a sawed-off shotgun, pointing it directly at Dante’s chest.

“Put the box down, Valenti,” the man growled. “Moretti sends his regards.”

Time stopped. Marco was trapped on the other side of the room, his angle blocked by the heavy sewing table. I was on my knees, clutching the lockbox.

Dante didn’t blink. “You’re in the wrong house, friend.”

Before the man could pull the trigger, I acted on pure instinct. I grabbed the heavy, cast-iron pedal of my mother’s broken sewing machine from the floor and hurled it as hard as I could at the gunman’s legs.

The heavy iron smashed into his shin.

The man howled in pain, his shotgun dipping for a fraction of a second.

Dante fired twice. The silenced gun coughed softly.

The man collapsed to the floor, dead before he hit the carpet.

The silence that followed was deafening. I sat on the floor, breathing heavily, staring at the body.

Dante lowered his gun. He looked at me, completely astounded.

“Did you just throw a sewing machine at a mafia hitman?” Dante asked, a faint, disbelieving smile touching his lips.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead. “It was just the pedal.”

Marco chuckled darkly from the corner. “Remind me never to piss her off, boss.”

Dante walked over to me. He offered me his hand. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet. He didn’t let go of my hand. He looked down at me, his dark eyes filled with profound admiration.

“You got the documents,” Dante said softly. “You got your house back. You got your life back.”

I looked down at the lockbox. Twelve million dollars. The legacy my mother had bled for, protected for, and died for. It was finally mine. Peter would spend the rest of his life in prison. Eleanor would lose her firm. The nightmare was over.

We walked downstairs and out the front door. The sky in the east was just beginning to turn a soft, bruised purple. Dawn was breaking.

We opened the door to the armored SUV. Olivia was asleep in the backseat, wrapped in the little yellow blanket she had found in the car’s trunk—the exact color of the blanket she had covered me with fourteen years ago.

I sat beside her, gently stroking her hair.

I reached into my purse and pulled out my fourteen-year sobriety chip. I held it in my palm, feeling the smooth brass. I had survived the worst night of my life, the most profound betrayals, and the threat of death. And I hadn’t needed a single drop of alcohol to do it.

Dante sat in the front seat. He turned around, resting his arm on the console.

“Where to, Catherine?” Dante asked, his voice warm and steady.

I looked at the little white house on Maple Street, bathed in the morning light. Then I looked at Dante.

“Home,” I smiled. “Take us home.”