Chapter 3 – The Mechanic’s Garage

The dusty air in the pawnshop suddenly felt too thick to breathe.

I stared at the photograph in my hand. Vanessa Bellini handing cash to a killer.

“Your father?” I whispered, looking up at Luca.

Luca’s face had turned into a mask of pure, lethal stone. “The police said my father’s crash was a tragic accident. Black ice on a mountain road. They said the other driver lost control.”

“They told me the exact same thing about Matthew,” I said, my voice shaking. “They said the truck driver fell asleep at the wheel.”

We were looking at proof that neither death was an accident. The Bellini family had hired the same hitman twice. First to murder the head of the Moretti family, and years later, to murder a humble auto mechanic.

“Why Matthew?” I asked, a desperate sob catching in my throat. “He was nobody! We didn’t have money. We didn’t have power. Why would Vanessa pay to have him killed?”

Luca gently took the photograph from my hands. “Mechanics aren’t nobodies, Abigail. They see the things people try to hide.”

He turned to the terrified pawnshop owner, who was cowering against the filing cabinets.

“Who dropped this toolbox off last week?” Luca demanded.

“I don’t know his name, I swear!” the man begged. “He was tall, wore a security uniform. He used the name on the ticket, Matthew Foster, and said Vanessa Bellini would come collect it personally!”

Luca’s jaw clenched. “Daniel.”

“Your head of security?” I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Daniel oversees all background checks for my staff,” Luca said grimly. “He knew you were Matthew’s widow. He’s been working for Vanessa.”

Luca grabbed my arm, his touch firm but protective. “We need to go to the garage where Matthew worked. Right now. Before Daniel realizes we found this.”

The drive to Earl’s Auto Repair on the west side took twenty minutes.

The garage was closed, the large aluminum bay doors locked tight against the storm. But the lights were on in the small glass office at the front.

Luca pounded on the glass.

An older man in grease-stained overalls walked out, wiping his hands on a rag. It was Earl, Matthew’s old boss. He looked annoyed until he saw my face.

He unlocked the door immediately. “Abby? What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Earl, we need to see the work orders from the week Matthew died,” I said, stepping out of the freezing rain.

Earl frowned, looking warily at Luca’s expensive suit and the visible holster under his arm. “The police already took all those files eighteen months ago, Abby.”

“Not the police,” Luca corrected smoothly. “A man named Daniel. Tall, wearing a suit. He flashed a badge, but it wasn’t a police badge.”

Earl’s eyes widened. “Yeah. How did you know that?”

“Did Matthew work on a car belonging to the Bellini family that week?” Luca pressed.

Earl walked behind his cluttered desk and let out a heavy sigh. “I told Matthew to leave that car alone. It was a black Mercedes. Vanessa Bellini brought it in for a simple oil change. But Matthew had a habit of looking too close.”

“What did he find?” I asked, my hands gripping the edge of the desk.

“He found a custom-built false compartment under the floorboards,” Earl said quietly. “It was rigged to the brake line. But that wasn’t what got him killed, Abby.”

Earl reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, unlocking it with a small key on his chain.

“Matthew came to me the night before he died,” Earl said, his voice thick with regret. “He said he found something wedged in the false compartment. Something that proved the Bellinis were planning a massacre to wipe out the Moretti family.”

He pulled out a small, yellowed shipping receipt and handed it to me.

“He knew they were watching him,” Earl said. “He knew he couldn’t go to the police. So he took the evidence, boxed it up, and mailed it away to keep it safe.”

I looked at the receipt. The tracking number was old, but the destination address was clear.

It was my apartment.

“Earl,” I whispered, my blood running cold. “I never received a package from Matthew.”

“Because you were at the hospital for three days after the crash,” Luca realized, stepping closer. “Who collects your mail when you aren’t home?”

My heart stopped.

“Mrs. Carter,” I breathed. “The head housekeeper. She lives in the apartment building across the street from mine. She takes my mail when I’m working long shifts.”

Luca pulled his phone from his pocket, but before he could dial, a heavy, metallic click echoed through the garage.

We turned around slowly.

Daniel, Luca’s head of security, was standing in the doorway of the garage. Rain dripped from his black coat, and a silenced pistol was aimed directly at my chest.

“You’re right, Abigail,” Daniel smiled, a cruel, empty expression on his face. “Mrs. Carter took your mail. And she’s waiting for us at your apartment right now.”