Chapter 2 – THE TRAITOR IN THE DOORWAY

The door frame splintered, showering the linoleum floor with wood chips.

Three men pushed into my tiny apartment. At the center was Marco, Luca’s trusted capo, the very man in the photograph we had just uncovered.

I grabbed Oliver and shoved him behind my legs, my heart pounding so hard my ribs ached.

Marco stood there, a heavy pistol gripped in his hand. He looked at the metal box on the table, then at Luca. He didn’t look angry; he looked absolutely terrified.

“I’m sorry, Boss,” Marco breathed, his chest heaving. “Vanessa called me. She said the kid talked. She said you were coming here.”

Luca didn’t reach for a weapon. He stood perfectly still, holding the photograph in his left hand. The terrifying calm radiating from him was worse than if he had started shouting.

“You’re wearing my brother’s wedding ring in this picture, Marco,” Luca said, his voice smooth and deadly. “Did you kill him for Vanessa? Or did she just pay you to do it?”

Marco shook his head frantically. “No! Boss, you have to listen to me. I swear on my mother’s soul, I didn’t kill Matteo!”

“Then why are you standing in my brother’s home with a gun pointed at his wife and child?”

“Because if I don’t bring you in, Silvio will kill my daughters!”

The name dropped into the room like a live grenade.

Silvio. Luca and Matteo’s uncle. The elder statesman of the Moretti family.

Luca’s eyes narrowed. “My uncle?”

“It was never Vanessa’s plan!” Marco yelled, his hand trembling so badly the gun shook. “Vanessa is just Silvio’s puppet. Silvio found out Matteo was secretly married and had a kid. He knew Matteo wanted to take his share of the family money and walk away clean. Silvio couldn’t let that money leave the family.”

I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. “So Silvio forced my husband to leave?”

“No,” Marco said, looking at me with miserable eyes. “Silvio ordered me to kill him. Three years ago. He gave me Matteo’s ring as a down payment. But I couldn’t do it. Matteo was a good man. I took the money, but I told Matteo to run.”

Luca took a slow step forward. “If you let him run, where is he?”

“I don’t know! I swear! I dropped him off at the old safehouse by the docks so he could grab his emergency stash. He told me to wait outside. But he never came back out. When I went inside, the place was empty.”

Marco lowered his gun, tears streaming down his scarred face. “Silvio must have had someone else waiting for him. I swear, Luca. I just came here to warn you. You have to get out of Chicago tonight.”

Luca stared at Marco for a long, heavy second. Then, Luca stepped forward and snatched the gun from Marco’s hand.

“If you’re lying to me,” Luca whispered, “I will bury you myself.”

Luca turned to me. “Get Oliver’s shoes. We’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, my hands shaking as I scooped up my son.

“To the docks. To the safehouse.”

Ten minutes later, we were in the back of Luca’s armored SUV, speeding through the rainy Chicago streets. Oliver was clutching his silver watch, burying his face in my shoulder.

The safehouse was an abandoned, rotting warehouse near the river. It smelled of mildew and old oil. Luca led us inside with a flashlight, his gun drawn.

“Marco said Matteo came here to get his emergency stash,” Luca muttered, sweeping the beam over broken crates and shattered glass.

“Matteo never kept money,” I whispered, stepping carefully over the debris. “He always said cash could be traced. He only cared about things he could carry.”

Luca paused near a collapsed wooden wardrobe. Lying half-buried under a pile of rotting canvas was a dark wool object.

Luca dropped to his knees. He pulled it free, shaking off the dust.

It was a heavy winter coat.

I let out a ragged sob. “That’s his. He was wearing that the night he left.”

Luca ran his hands frantically over the coat. He checked the main pockets. Empty.

Then, he felt the lining near the collar. He pulled a pocket knife from his belt and sliced the fabric open.

He reached inside and pulled out a small, laminated ticket.

He shined the flashlight on it. “It’s a baggage claim ticket for Union Station. Locker 402.”

Hope flared in my chest. “Maybe he left us a message? Money to escape?”

We drove to the train station in silence. The building was nearly empty at this hour. We found locker 402 in a dusty, forgotten corridor.

Luca fed coins into the slot. He scanned the barcode on the ticket.

The heavy metal door clicked open.

I held my breath, expecting a bag of cash or passports.

Luca reached inside.

But he didn’t pull out money.

He pulled out a silver rosary.

It belonged to Luca and Matteo’s late mother. It was the family’s most sacred heirloom.

But as Luca turned it over under the harsh fluorescent lights of the station, my stomach violently churned.

The silver beads weren’t shiny.

They were coated in thick, dried, black blood.

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