Chapter 3 - THE BLOOD ON THE FLOORBOARDS
Vincent stared at the shattered silver watch resting in Rose’s trembling palm.
“Richard’s brother?” Vincent’s voice was barely a rasp. “Frankie Mercer? Frankie disappeared three days before my father died.”
Rose nodded slowly. “Your father killed Frankie. He beat him to death in the basement of the restaurant over a skimmed payment.”
I pressed my hand against my mouth. The little brick restaurant on Halsted. The place where I’d watched Rose serve pancakes to children.
“Your mother found Frankie’s body,” Rose continued, tears falling onto her navy dress. “Your father told her that if she breathed a word, you and Anthony would be given to the Lupertazzis. So she waited until your father took the boat out that night. She took a gun. And she made sure he never came back.”
Vincent dropped into the chair beside her, burying his face in his tattooed hands. The most powerful man in Chicago was suddenly just a boy whose entire reality had fractured.
“So Richard Mercer knows,” Daniel, the attorney, said quietly from the shadows. “Richard knows Evelyn killed your father. And he knows your father killed Frankie.”
“He found out,” Rose whispered. “Richard came to the restaurant the night before your father’s funeral. He had Frankie’s bloodstained watch. He told Evelyn that if she didn't pay him every month, he’d go to the police. Not about your father. About Frankie.”
Vincent looked up, his eyes bloodshot. “Mom paid him? All these years?”
“Every penny of profit the restaurant made,” Rose said. “That’s why she worked sixteen-hour days. That’s why she slept upstairs in the freezing cold. She wasn’t building a business, baby. She was paying a ransom so you boys wouldn’t go to foster care.”
A heavy silence fell over the ruined dining room. The crushed peach pie was still scattered across the marble floor.
I realized then why Rose had never taken Vincent’s money. She felt guilty. She’d been holding a terrible, crushing secret her entire life.
“But Anthony’s text,” Vincent said, his voice hardening. “Anthony said not to trust you.”
Rose looked away. “Anthony found out the truth when he was eighteen.”
“And he didn't tell me?”
“He wanted to kill Richard,” Rose sobbed. “I stopped him. I told him it would destroy everything your mother sacrificed. I made him swear to keep quiet.”
“Where is Anthony now?” Vincent demanded.
Before Rose could answer, Daniel stepped forward. His phone was pressed to his ear. His face had gone chalk-white.
“Vincent,” Daniel said. “That was security at the Halsted restaurant.”
Vincent stood up instantly. “What is it?”
“Richard Mercer didn't go home,” Daniel swallowed hard. “He bypassed our security. He’s at the restaurant right now with a sledgehammer. He’s tearing up the kitchen floor.”
“The wooden box,” Rose gasped, grabbing Vincent’s arm. “The letter your father wrote. Richard is trying to destroy the evidence!”
Vincent didn't wait. He sprinted for the door.
“Mia!” he barked. “Bring Rose to the car!”
I didn't think about my job. I didn't think about the danger. I grabbed Rose’s coat and helped her toward the garage.
Twenty minutes later, three black SUVs slammed to a halt in front of 1847 West Halsted Street. The windows of the old brick diner were dark. But a rhythmic, violent CRASH echoed from inside.
Vincent kicked the front door open, his weapon drawn. I stayed behind him, keeping Rose safely on the sidewalk.
“Mercer!” Vincent roared.
The smashing stopped.
We stepped into the kitchen. The linoleum floor was completely shredded. Wood splinters covered the stainless steel prep tables.
Richard Mercer stood in the center of the room, breathing heavily, a sledgehammer in his hands.
But he wasn't looking at Vincent.
He was staring down into a dark, rectangular hole in the foundation.
Vincent kept his gun aimed at Richard’s chest. “Step away from the hole.”
Richard slowly backed up. He dropped the hammer. He was trembling.
Vincent approached the hole. He looked down, expecting to see the wooden box Rose had mentioned.
Instead, Vincent froze. His gun lowered slightly.
“Rose,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling in a way I had never heard.
I helped Rose step carefully over the debris. We looked down into the foundation.
There was no wooden box.
There was only a skeleton.
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And wrapped around the skeleton’s neck was a heavy gold chain carrying a diamond cross—a cross I had seen in dozens of photographs.
“That’s my father’s necklace,” Vincent breathed, turning to Rose in horror. “If my father is buried under your kitchen floor... then who did my mother shoot on the boat?”
