Chapter 4 – THE COAT IN THE CLOSET

The flashing lights of the fire trucks reflected in the puddles of the alleyway. The fire had been contained to the chapel, but the water damage rendered the shelter completely uninhabitable.

Mrs. Donovan was crying, trying to comfort the displaced families. The city buses were already arriving to take them to a temporary, overcrowded gymnasium downtown.

I stood completely still, staring at the child’s drawing in my hands.

Tell Helen to check the coat.

Luca’s mother knew my mother. They had to. There was no other explanation for why my mother’s name was written on a twenty-year-old drawing hidden under the floorboards.

I looked at where Luca had kicked the ledger. The police hadn’t noticed. I quickly walked over, knelt in the dirty water, and shoved the heavy leather book into my tote bag.

I didn’t wait for the buses. I ran three blocks to where Luca had parked the Range Rover earlier. The keys were still in the center console. I climbed into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and sped toward my mother’s apartment in the working-class neighborhood of Pilsen.

My mind was racing. My mother, Helen, had worked at a grocery store her entire life. She was a quiet, gentle woman whose hands were twisted with severe arthritis. She baked bread. She watched game shows. She had never mentioned the Moretti family, the Bellinis, or St. Catherine’s Shelter.

When I burst through the front door of our small, two-bedroom apartment, the television was on.

My mother was sitting in her recliner, wrapped in a blanket, looking terrified.

“Natalie!” she gasped, struggling to stand up. “Thank God. I saw the news. They arrested Mr. Moretti. They said there was a fire at the shelter!”

“Mom, sit down,” I said, dropping my tote bag on the table. The heavy ledger made a loud thud.

I walked over to her and held out the child’s drawing.

“Mom. Do you know what this is?”

She looked at the drawing. When she saw the cursive writing at the bottom, all the color drained from her face. She sank back into the recliner, trembling violently.

“She promised me,” my mother whispered, tears instantly filling her eyes. “Eleanor promised me she destroyed it.”

“Eleanor? Luca’s mother?”

My mother nodded slowly, wrapping her twisted, arthritic hands together.

“Mom, you told me you worked at a grocery store before I was born.”

“I lied, Natalie,” she choked out. “Twenty-six years ago, I was Eleanor Moretti’s personal assistant. And her best friend.”

I felt the room tilt. The woman I had been cleaning up after, the legacy I had been defending—it was connected to my own blood.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I asked, my voice breaking.

“Because I was trying to keep you alive!” my mother sobbed. “Eleanor was building a case against Marcus Bellini. She found out he was embezzling millions and using the shelter as a front for his illegal shipments. When she confronted him, Marcus threatened to kill Luca. Luca was just a boy.”

I thought about the photograph. The possessive way Marcus held Eleanor.

“She hid the evidence,” I said, pointing to the tote bag. “I have the ledger, Mom. We found it under the floorboards.”

My mother shook her head frantically. “The ledger is useless without the proof of the bank account numbers. Marcus was smart. He used offshore accounts. The ledger just shows the amounts, not where the money went. Without the account numbers, a corrupt judge will throw the book out.”

“Then where are the account numbers?”

My mother closed her eyes. “Eleanor wrote them down on a deposit slip. She gave it to me the night she died. She told me to hide it. To keep it safe until Luca was old enough to finish the fight.”

“Where is it?” I demanded.

“It’s in the coat,” she whispered. “My old winter coat.”

I ran to the hallway closet. I tore through the cheap jackets and umbrellas until I found it in the very back—a heavy, moth-eaten wool coat she hadn’t worn since I was a child.

I patted down the pockets. Nothing.

“In the lining,” my mother called out. “Behind the left pocket.”

I ripped the frayed silk lining with my hands. My fingers brushed against a stiff piece of paper.

I pulled it out. It was a yellowed, carbon-copy bank deposit slip. Written on the back, in Eleanor’s handwriting, were three offshore account numbers and routing codes.

The missing puzzle pieces.

“This is it,” I breathed. “This proves everything. This will get Luca out of jail.”

Suddenly, a loud, heavy knock rattled our front door.

My mother flinched.

“Natalie Brooks,” a voice called from the hallway. It wasn’t the police.

It was Vanessa Bellini.

“Open the door, sweetheart,” Vanessa said smoothly through the wood. “I know you took something from the shelter. Hand it over, and I’ll make sure your arthritic mother doesn’t have an unfortunate accident down these steep stairs.”

I looked around the apartment. We were on the third floor. There was no fire escape.

And sticking out from under the crack of the door, I saw the tips of two men’s black leather shoes. Vanessa had brought Marcus’s men.

We were trapped.

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