Chapter 3 – THE BLOODY COAT IN THE ORPHANAGE

“You’re coming with us.”

The command hung in the air.

I was a housekeeper.

I had never held a gun. I had never been in a fight.

But I looked at the drawing in my hand, and I thought of a terrified little boy locked in a dark, abandoned building.

“Okay,” I said.

Elena rushed forward, grabbing my hands.

“Thank you,” she wept. “Thank you, Grace.”

Luca didn’t waste another second.

He ordered two guards to lock Vanessa in the basement until they returned.

Then we sprinted out to the driveway.

The rain was coming down in sheets now, turning the Chicago streets into black mirrors.

I sat in the back of an armored SUV between Luca and Elena.

Marco was driving, pushing the heavy vehicle well past the speed limit.

Luca was entirely focused.

He loaded a heavy, black handgun with terrifying efficiency.

He didn’t look like the polished businessman who hosted charity dinners.

He looked like the monster the newspapers claimed he was.

But sitting next to him, I didn’t feel afraid of him.

I felt protected.

“Grace,” Luca said, his voice cutting through the silence of the car.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me about the building.”

I closed my eyes, trying to remember the details from my childhood.

“It’s massive. Four floors. But the main entrance has been boarded up for years.”

“How did you get in when you were a kid?”

“There’s a coal chute on the west side,” I explained. “It leads directly into the basement boiler room. We used to sneak in there during the winter.”

Luca nodded.

“We’ll go in through the chute. Marco, drop us two blocks away. We go in quiet.”

We arrived at the south side ten minutes later.

The neighborhood was deserted, the streetlights flickering in the storm.

The imposing silhouette of the abandoned St. Jude’s Orphanage loomed against the night sky, its broken clock tower looking like a jagged tooth.

Marco parked the SUV in a dark alley.

Luca turned to his sister.

“Elena, stay in the car. Keep the doors locked.”

“No!” Elena argued. “He’s my son!”

“And if things go wrong in there, he needs his mother safe,” Luca said firmly. “I will bring him back to you. I swear it on our father’s grave.”

Elena choked on a sob, but she nodded.

Luca looked at me.

“Show me the chute, Grace.”

We slipped out into the freezing rain.

I didn’t have a coat. I was still wearing my thin black uniform.

The cold bit into my skin, but adrenaline kept me moving.

We crept along the west wall of the building, avoiding the patches of moonlight.

“There,” I whispered, pointing to a rusted iron door set low into the brick foundation.

Luca grabbed the heavy iron handle and pulled.

It groaned loudly, but it opened.

He went in first, sliding down the dark chute.

I followed, landing beside him in the pitch-black basement.

It smelled of damp earth and rust.

Luca pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, shielding the beam with his hand.

We moved cautiously through the maze of old boilers and broken pipes.

Suddenly, Luca stopped.

He raised a hand, signaling me to stay quiet.

He pointed his flashlight toward the floor ahead of us.

My breath hitched.

Laying across a pile of broken wooden pallets was a heavy, dark winter coat.

But it wasn’t just discarded.

It was soaked in fresh blood.

Luca knelt beside it.

He touched the fabric.

“It’s warm,” he whispered.

He turned the coat over.

Sewn into the collar was a monogram.

Richard Bellini.

Vanessa’s father was here.

And he was bleeding.

“Someone hit him,” Luca murmured, his eyes scanning the darkness.

Before I could ask what that meant, a loud crash echoed from the floor above us.

Followed by a man’s scream.

It wasn’t a scream of anger. It was a scream of pure, agonizing terror.

Luca stood up, his gun raised.

“Stay behind me.”

We crept up the concrete stairs leading to the first floor.

The door was slightly ajar.

Luca pushed it open with his foot.

The main hallway of the orphanage was lit by a single, battery-powered camping lantern sitting on the floor.

And what we saw in that light made my blood run cold.

Richard Bellini, the powerful, untouchable politician, was crawling on his hands and knees across the dusty floorboards.

He was bleeding heavily from a wound on his shoulder.

He was crying.

“Please,” Bellini begged, looking back over his shoulder into the darkness. “I’ll give you the money. I’ll give you whatever you want!”

A figure stepped out of the shadows.

It wasn’t a rival mafia boss.

It wasn’t a kidnapper.

It was an older man, maybe sixty years old, wearing a faded mechanic’s jacket.

He was holding a heavy iron crowbar.

And resting gently in his other arm, fast asleep, was a little boy with dark curly hair.

The older man looked down at Richard Bellini with absolute, unwavering hatred.

“You took my grandson,” the man said, his voice raspy and broken.

I froze.

I recognized that voice.

I stepped out from behind Luca, completely ignoring the danger.

“Grandpa?” I whispered.

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