Chapter 7 – THE DRAWING IN THE DARK

I snatched the drawing from the table.

It was on a piece of cheap hospital napkin, sketched hastily with a blue pen.

It wasn’t drawn by a child. It was drawn to look like it was from a child.

It depicted a tall tower with a clock face. And at the bottom, a weeping angel.

“The bank,” I gasped, handing it to Luca. “First National. They took her to the vault.”

Luca’s jaw clenched. “Dominic’s men. They must have been watching the hospital. When Dominic was arrested, they moved to secure the code from her by force.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket, dialing rapidly.

“I need a perimeter around First National Bank,” Luca barked into the phone. “No sirens. Block the alleys. Nobody gets in or out.”

We sprinted back to the SUV.

The drive to the financial district was a blur of neon lights and rain.

My hands were shaking so violently I had to grip my knees to keep them still.

“If they hurt her, Luca, I swear—”

“They won’t,” Luca interrupted, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos. “She’s the only one who knows the code. They need her alive to open the box.”

First National Bank was a massive stone building built in the 1920s. The heavy iron gates at the front were closed for the night, but a side service door was propped open with a brick.

Luca parked a block away.

He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a heavy flashlight and a spare magazine for his weapon.

He looked at me.

“Stay behind me. If anything happens, you run to the car and lock the doors. Do you understand?”

I nodded, though I knew I wouldn’t leave without my mother.

We slipped through the side door.

The bank was dark, quiet as a tomb. The air smelled of old paper and polished brass.

We moved silently across the marble lobby, heading toward the stairs that led to the underground vault.

As we descended, I heard voices.

Muffled. Angry.

“Give us the code, Margaret, and you can go home to your daughter.”

It was a man’s voice, echoing off the steel walls of the vault room.

We crept to the edge of the doorway and peered inside.

Two of Dominic’s men were standing in front of a massive wall of safe deposit boxes.

My mother was sitting on the floor, leaning against the cold metal. She looked frail, exhausted, her hospital gown stained with dirt.

“I told you,” my mother rasped, her voice weak but defiant. “I don’t know it. Lorenzo never gave it to me.”

One of the men grabbed her by the arm, pulling her roughly to her feet.

“Don’t lie to me. We know you have it.”

I couldn’t stop myself.

“Let her go!” I screamed, stepping into the doorway.

The men spun around, raising their guns.

But Luca was already moving.

He stepped in front of me, firing two warning shots into the ceiling. The deafening sound echoed like thunder in the concrete room.

“Drop them!” Luca roared.

The men hesitated, looking at Luca’s steady aim. They knew who he was. They knew he didn’t miss.

Slowly, they lowered their weapons and kicked them across the floor.

I ran to my mother, dropping to my knees and throwing my arms around her.

“Mom! Are you okay?”

She hugged me tight, crying into my shoulder. “Emily, I’m so sorry. I tried to protect you.”

“It’s over,” I whispered. “You’re safe.”

Luca kept his gun trained on the men.

“Get out. Tell whatever is left of the Rossi family that Chicago belongs to the Morettis. If I ever see your faces again, there won’t be a warning shot.”

The men backed away and ran up the stairs.

We were alone in the vault.

Luca lowered his weapon and walked over to us. He knelt down, looking at my mother with a gentleness I hadn’t seen before.

“Margaret,” Luca said softly. “You saved my father’s life during his darkest days. I owe you everything.”

My mother reached out, her trembling hand touching Luca’s cheek.

“You look just like him,” she whispered.

Luca smiled sadly.

He stood up and walked over to the wall of boxes.

He found Box 412. The Weeping Angel box.

He inserted the brass key I had given him earlier. It turned with a heavy click.

But he didn’t pull the box out.

He looked at my mother.

“Margaret. What’s the code?”

My mother looked at me.

Then, she whispered the numbers.

“0-4-1-8.”

I froze.

April 18th.

My birthday.

Luca punched the numbers into the keypad.

A green light flashed.

He pulled the long metal box from the wall and set it on the table in the center of the room.

He opened the lid.

Inside wasn’t a contract.

It wasn’t a deed to the territory.

It was a beautiful, pristine diamond necklace.

And a handwritten letter.

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