Chapter 9 – THE TICKET TO CHICAGO

I stared at the blue train ticket, the faded ink seeming to burn into my skin.

Don’t tell Antonio.

My mother had died when I was seven. She was a quiet, gentle woman who loved gardening and classical music. Why would she be secretly taking a train to Chicago thirty-five years ago? And why was she hiding it from Antonio DeLuca?

“Lily?” Marco walked into the kitchen, carrying a stack of empty plates. He stopped when he saw the look on my face. “What’s wrong?”

I handed him the ticket.

Marco read the handwriting, his brow furrowing. “This is your mother’s handwriting?”

I nodded slowly. “She died a long time ago. My dad never talked about her much. He said it hurt too much.”

Marco looked at the date. “Thirty-five years ago. That was a year before you were born.”

Maria walked back in, wiping her hands on a towel. She saw the ticket and froze.

“Where did you find that?” Maria asked, her voice suddenly tight.

“It was tucked in the back of the recipe book,” I said. “Maria, did you know my mother went to Chicago?”

Maria looked away, her hands wringing the towel. “It is not my place to tell you, Lily. Your father is the only one who can.”

“My father can barely remember what he had for breakfast,” I pleaded. “Please, Maria. What is this?”

Maria sighed heavily, leaning against the stainless steel counter.

“Your mother didn’t go to Chicago for a vacation, Lily. She went to meet someone. Someone Antonio and your father spent years trying to hide from.”

“Who?” Marco demanded.

“A man named Vincent Russo,” Maria whispered. “The boss of the Chicago outfit. He was the one who originally bankrolled the corrupt politicians in New York. When your father started moving the bribe money offshore, Russo found out.”

My blood ran cold. “Russo went after my mother?”

“No,” Maria said softly. “Your mother went to him. She offered him a deal to spare William’s life.”

“What deal?” I asked, my voice shaking.

Before Maria could answer, Marco’s cell phone rang.

He pulled it out, annoyed by the interruption, but his expression changed when he saw the caller ID.

“It’s the security gate at the estate,” Marco said. He answered it on speaker. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Mr. DeLuca,” the guard’s voice crackled. “We have a situation here. A fleet of black SUVs just pulled up to the gates. They’re demanding to see William Carter.”

Marco’s jaw tightened. “Who is it?”

“He says his name is Vincent Russo, sir. He says he’s here to collect a debt.”

Share