Chapter 4 - THE WINTER COAT THAT HID A GHOST
The gun in my hand suddenly felt a thousand times heavier.
"Mom?" The word scraped out of my throat.
She stood there, buttoned to the chin in the black wool coat I had buried her in seven years ago.
Vincent, bleeding from a cut above his eye, stared at her like he was looking at the devil. "Martha? You died. I saw your body in the casket."
My mother smiled. It was a cold, razor-thin smile.
"You saw a woman who looked like me, Vincent," she said, stepping over the shattered glass. "A woman who died of a genuine aneurysm the same night Celeste here tried to put arsenic in my chamomile."
Dominic backed away, his hands raised in disbelief. "I watched you drink it. I watched you stop breathing."
"You watched an old woman fake a heart attack because she knew if she didn't, you would shoot her grandson next," my mother replied.
She walked directly toward me and gently pushed the barrel of the gun down toward the floor. Her hand was warm. She was real.
"Mom," I sobbed, collapsing into her arms. I didn't care about the mafia, the money, or the betrayal. My mother was alive.
She held me tight, kissing the top of my head. "I'm here, Evie. I'm so sorry I had to leave you in the dark. But it was the only way to keep you and Anthony alive while I dismantled his empire."
I pulled back, confused. "Dismantled?"
My mother reached into the deep pocket of her winter coat. She pulled out a stack of manila folders and tossed them onto the broken patio table.
"Every offshore account, every shell company, every bribe paid to a judge in Cook County," my mother said. "I didn't run away to hide, Vincent. I ran to the FBI."
Vincent's face drained of color. The powerful boss of Chicago looked like a terrified child.
"You wore a wire?" Vincent breathed out.
"Better," my mother said. "I became a confidential informant. I've spent seven years feeding them every move Dominic made to steal your money, and every move you made to protect it."
Sirens wailed in the distance. The sound cut through the heavy air of the estate, growing louder by the second.
"The feds are coming," Dominic panicked. He looked at the French doors leading out to the gardens.
He bolted.
"Let him go," my mother said as Vincent tried to stand. "The perimeter is surrounded by SWAT. He won't make it to the gates."
Celeste was weeping on the floor, clutching her knees. "My daughter. Please, what is going to happen to my daughter?"
My mother looked down at the mistress. "Your daughter is already in a secure safe house, Celeste. My handlers picked her up an hour ago. You're going to testify against Dominic, and in exchange, you and your child get witness protection."
Celeste collapsed in relief.
Vincent slowly stood up, wiping the blood from his brow. He looked at me, then at Anthony, who was still holding the leather journal.
"Anthony," Vincent said, his voice breaking. "You knew. You knew she was alive?"
Anthony nodded. "She contacted me three weeks ago. She told me to find the photograph. To get the brass key. To force the confrontation tonight so the FBI could move in."
My own son had been playing a dangerous game behind my back. He had risked his life to save me.
Vincent turned to me. The sirens were deafening now. Red and blue lights flashed against the windows, painting the conservatory in panic.
"Evelyn," Vincent pleaded, reaching out for my hand. "I didn't know about Dominic's plot. I never wanted your mother dead. You know I love you."
I looked at the man I had given seventeen years of my life to. I looked at the tailored suit paid for in blood, and the charming smile that had hidden a monster.
I stepped back.
"You love the idea of me, Vincent. But you let another man try to kill my mother under our roof, and you were willing to bury the truth to save your own skin."
The conservatory doors swung open violently. Dozens of armed FBI agents flooded the room, their tactical flashlights blinding us.
"Vincent Moretti, hands on your head!" an agent shouted.
Vincent slowly raised his hands. As they cuffed him, he looked back at me one last time.
"I'll get out, Evie," he promised darkly. "I always get out."
An agent gently guided my mother, Anthony, and me out of the room.
We walked through the mansion, past the bewildered party guests who were now being detained by federal agents.
We reached the front driveway, the cool night air finally hitting my face.
"It's over," I whispered, holding Anthony's hand tightly.
My mother stopped walking. She looked at the flashing police lights, a strange, sorrowful expression on her face.
"No, Evie," my mother said softly. "It's not over."
She reached into her coat pocket again and pulled out a rusted, antique pocket watch.
"Dominic wasn't stealing the money for himself," she said, pressing the cold metal watch into my hand. "He was funneling it to the man who owns this watch. The man who actually runs Chicago."
I opened the face of the watch.
Engraved on the inside were the words: To my son, Vincent. May you rule with an iron fist.
But Vincent's father had been dead for thirty years.
"Mom," I stammered. "Who does this belong to?"
May you like
My mother looked toward the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan.
"It belongs to the man who just paid my FBI handler a million dollars to let Vincent walk free tonight."
