Chapter 7 – THE CHILD’S DRAWING AND THE NEW MORNING

The morning sun spilled across the hardwood floors of my empty living room.

It had been three days since the disastrous non-wedding at St. Jude’s. Three days since I walked out of the Lakeview restaurant, leaving Anthony to face the ruins of his empire.

The FBI had raided his offices yesterday morning. The news vans were still parked at the end of our street, hoping for a glimpse of the “Mafia Wife.” But I had already packed my bags.

I was standing in the center of the living room, holding a cardboard box of photographs.

The front door opened, and Emily walked in, followed by Michael. They looked exhausted but peaceful. They had spent the last two days at a small bed-and-breakfast in Wisconsin, hiding from the fallout.

“Are you really leaving the house, Mom?” Emily asked, looking around the grand, echoing foyer.

“The government is going to seize it anyway, sweetheart,” I said, taping the box shut. “I’d rather walk out on my own terms than be evicted by federal agents.”

Michael picked up the box. “I’ll put this in the car. We found a great little apartment for you in Evanston, near us. It has a garden.”

I smiled at him. “Thank you, Michael.”

Emily walked over to the fireplace. The large portrait of Anthony and a five-year-old Emily had been taken down. In its place, sitting on the mantle, was a small, framed piece of paper.

It was a crayon drawing Emily had made in first grade. It showed three stick figures holding hands. Above them, in wobbly letters, she had written: My Family.

“You kept this?” Emily asked softly, touching the frame.

“I kept everything that mattered,” I replied.

Suddenly, a heavy knock echoed from the front door.

I froze. The feds wouldn’t knock like that. They had already taken what they needed.

Michael stepped in front of Emily, his jaw set. I walked to the door and pulled it open.

Standing on the porch was Brianna.

She looked entirely different. The glamorous hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She was wearing cheap jeans and a faded sweater. The confidence that had radiated from her in her red dress was entirely gone.

“What do you want?” I asked coldly.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I need your help.”

I stared at her. “You have a lot of nerve coming here.”

“I have nowhere else to go!” Brianna cried, a tear spilling down her cheek. “Anthony is in holding. His bank accounts are frozen. The cartel… Silvio’s men are looking for my brother. And they’re looking for me.”

“That sounds like a consequence of your own choices,” I said, moving to close the door.

“Wait!” She jammed her foot in the doorway. “I know where the Cayman account key is. The one Anthony didn’t put in the ledger. The one he kept hidden from everyone, even you.”

I paused.

Anthony had always bragged that he had a “ghost account.” A stash of untraceable funds for a rainy day. I had never been able to find it during my forensic search.

“Why would you give it to me?” I asked cautiously.

“Because I want out!” Brianna sobbed. “I don’t want the money. I just want a plane ticket for me and my brother to get out of the country before Silvio finds us. If you buy us the tickets, I’ll give you the key.”

I looked at this woman. Six days ago, she had stood in my living room and told me to disappear from my daughter’s wedding. She had worn my grandmother’s sapphire. She had tried to steal my life.

Now, she was begging for scraps.

“Mom, don’t do it,” Emily said from behind me. “She’s lying.”

I looked back at Emily. Then I looked at Brianna.

“Where is the key?” I asked.

Brianna sniffled, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a small, silver key with a sequence of numbers engraved on it.

“It’s a safety deposit box at the First National on Dearborn,” she said. “Under the name Arthur Vane. My grandfather. Anthony used his name to open it.”

I took the key from her. It felt heavy, loaded with twenty years of dirty secrets.

“I’ll transfer ten thousand dollars to an untraceable account for you,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “That’s enough for two one-way tickets to Europe and a few weeks of hotel rooms. After that, you’re on your own.”

Brianna nodded frantically. “Thank you. Thank you, Marianne.”

“Don’t thank me,” I said. “Just disappear. If I ever see you near my daughter again, I won’t call the police. I’ll call Silvio.”

Brianna paled, turned, and ran down the driveway toward a beat-up sedan.

I closed the door and looked at the silver key in my hand.

“Are you really going to let her get away?” Michael asked quietly.

“She’s not getting away,” I said. “She has to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. That’s a prison Anthony can’t buy his way out of.”

I walked over to the mantle and picked up Emily’s framed drawing.

“Come on,” I said, smiling at my daughter. “Let’s go see what your father left us.”

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