Chapter 4 – THE BRACELET IN THE ASHES

The black SUV tore through the slick Chicago streets, the tires screaming as Rossi took a sharp corner.

I sat in the back seat between Luca and Arthur, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Midnight.

Vincent Bellini was going to destroy the restaurant tonight, erasing the collateral and taking my mother before the sun came up.

“Rossi, faster,” Luca commanded, his eyes locked on the digital clock on the dashboard.

11:32 PM.

“If they bring the building down,” Arthur said, his hands shaking as he clutched the brass bell, “everything in your father’s desk will be buried under a hundred tons of brick.”

“We’ll get there,” Luca said.

When we finally pulled onto the narrow, cobblestone street of the old neighborhood, the air was thick with the smell of gasoline.

The original Moretti restaurant stood at the end of the block, a beautiful two-story brick building with green awnings.

But parked out front were two massive unmarked bulldozers.

And three men in dark clothes were pouring gasoline across the front steps.

“Rossi,” Luca barked.

Rossi didn’t even park the car. He threw it into park, drew his weapon, and kicked the door open.

“Drop the cans!” Rossi roared.

The three men spun around. Seeing the gun, they dropped the red gasoline cans and sprinted down the alleyway.

Luca didn’t chase them. He sprinted straight for the front door of the restaurant.

He kicked the glass door in, the glass shattering across the linoleum floor.

“Arthur! Where is the desk?” Luca shouted over his shoulder.

“Back office! Behind the kitchen!”

I followed them inside. The restaurant smelled like decades of garlic, baked bread, and old wood. It was beautiful.

We ran through the dining room, our shoes crunching on the glass, and burst through the swinging kitchen doors.

Arthur led us to a small, heavy oak door in the back.

It was locked.

Luca didn’t hesitate. He took a step back and drove his heel into near the handle. The wood splintered, and the door flew open.

The office was small and dusty. In the center sat a massive, antique roll-top desk.

Luca rushed to it and pulled the small brass key from his pocket.

He inserted it into the center drawer.

It clicked.

He pulled the drawer open.

Inside, there was no stack of cash. There were no gold bars.

There was only a faded leather journal, a stack of payroll receipts from twenty years ago, and a small, delicate silver charm bracelet.

Luca stared at the drawer.

“That’s it?” he whispered, devastation creeping into his voice. “A bracelet and some receipts? This won’t cover two million dollars.”

Arthur picked up the leather journal.

“Your father said the answer was in here.”

I looked down at the drawer. My eyes locked onto the silver charm bracelet.

My breath caught.

I reached out with trembling fingers and picked it up.

“Megan?” Luca asked, watching me. “What is it?”

I turned the bracelet over in my hand.

Hanging from the silver links were three small charms: a star, a crescent moon, and a tiny brass bell.

“This is my mother’s,” I whispered. “She lost it the night of the fire. She cried for weeks.”

Luca stepped closer. “Why would my father keep your mother’s cheap silver bracelet locked in his safe for twenty years?”

Arthur carefully opened the faded leather journal.

He traced his finger down the first page, reading Luca’s father’s cramped handwriting.

Arthur’s eyes widened.

“Mr. Moretti,” Arthur breathed. “He didn’t keep it for sentimental reasons.”

“Then why?”

Arthur looked up, his eyes shining with a mixture of shock and awe.

“Because the charms on this bracelet aren’t silver. They’re platinum. And according to this journal… your father hollowed them out and filled them with uncut diamonds he smuggled out of Italy in 1985.”