Chapter 3 – THE DAUGHTER WE LOST

“Why are you sending thousands of dollars to Clara?”

I held the small black book against my chest.

Vincent took a slow step forward, his hands raised like he was trying to calm a frightened animal.

“Ellie, put the book down.”

“She hasn’t spoken to us in ten years, Vincent. She didn’t even invite us to her wedding. Why is her name in the Russo family ledger?”

“Because it’s not the Russo ledger,” he said softly.

I stopped.

“What?”

“It’s mine. It’s a record of every dollar I’ve cleaned to keep her safe.”

He ran a hand through his graying hair, suddenly looking every day of his sixty years.

“Ten years ago, Clara didn’t just run away because she hated my lifestyle, Eleanor. She ran because she saw something she shouldn’t have. She saw Bianca’s father murder a man.”

The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

“Clara?” I whispered.

“Russo was going to kill her. I made a deal. I took Bianca as my mistress to satisfy Russo’s ego, and I agreed to launder his money. In exchange, Clara got to live. But she had to disappear.”

“You told me she just wanted a normal life!” I screamed, tears finally spilling over. “You let me think my daughter hated me!”

“She does hate me!” Vincent shouted back, his voice breaking. “She thinks I chose the mob over her! But she’s alive, Ellie. She has a son. You have a grandson.”

A grandson.

The word hit me like a physical blow.

“I have a grandson?”

Vincent nodded, tears in his own eyes. “His name is Leo. He’s six.”

I looked at the plane tickets sitting on the table.

“These tickets,” I said, pointing. “They aren’t for us.”

Vincent looked down. “No. They’re for Clara and Leo. Bianca’s brother took over the family yesterday. He knows Clara is a witness. He’s sending men tonight.”

“Then we have to go get her.”

“I can’t,” Vincent said. “If I leave this house, they’ll follow me. They’re watching the street.”

I looked at the darkened window.

He was right. A black sedan was idling under the streetlamp.

“But they aren’t watching me,” I said.

Vincent shook his head violently. “No. No, Ellie. It’s too dangerous.”

I didn’t argue.

I simply walked to the table, picked up the keys to my old station wagon, and grabbed the plane tickets.

“Eleanor, stop!”

“For thirty years, I sat in this house waiting for you to protect us,” I said, pulling on my coat. “Look where it got us. My daughter thinks she’s an orphan.”

I opened the back door leading to the alley.

“Where does she live, Vincent?”

He saw the look in my eyes. He knew he couldn’t stop me.

“142 Elm Street. Apartment 3B.”

I stepped out into the cold Chicago night.

I drove through the back alleys, keeping my headlights off until I was blocks away.

When I reached Elm Street, I ran up three flights of stairs.

I pounded on door 3B.

A moment later, it opened.

A woman stood there. She had my eyes.

“Mom?” Clara whispered, dropping a laundry basket.

Before I could speak, a little boy ran up and hid behind her legs.

He was clutching something in his hand.

A child’s crayon drawing.

I looked down at the paper.

It was a drawing of a man with a scar over his eye.

“Leo, where did you see that man?” Clara asked, her voice trembling.

The boy pointed toward their open living room window.

“He’s on the fire escape.”

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