Chapter 6 - THE CHILD’S DRAWING IN THE WAREHOUSE
The warehouse erupted into chaos.
Carlo’s guards raised their weapons, but Vincent fired first.
The blast echoed like thunder, dropping two of the armed men instantly. The remaining guards scrambled for cover behind rusted machinery.
"Get down!" Vincent roared.
I grabbed Anthony’s jacket and pulled him hard to the concrete floor, dragging my mother down with us. Bullets sparked against the floorboards, tearing through the metal scaffolding above our heads.
Vincent moved like a phantom. The polished, untouchable mafia boss I knew was gone. This was the street enforcer who had built a kingdom in blood. He ducked behind a steel pillar, returning fire with lethal precision.
Carlo, clutching his bleeding shoulder, dragged himself behind the heavy folding table.
"You turn on your own blood, Vincent?" Carlo screamed over the gunfire. "For a woman who was about to send you to federal prison?"
"She’s my wife!" Vincent shouted back, reloading his shotgun. "And that’s my son! You tried to take them from me!"
"I built you!" Carlo raged. "I made you a king!"
"You made me a target!"
Vincent fired blindly over the pillar.
I huddled over Anthony, my hands covering his ears. My mother was completely still, her eyes darting around the warehouse, calculating an escape route.
"Evie," she whispered, pointing to a rusted side door twenty feet away. "When Vincent draws their fire again, we run for that door."
"We can't just leave him," Anthony argued, his voice shaking but defiant.
"He’s buying us time," I said, my heart breaking at the realization. Seventeen years of lies, cheating, and manipulation... and yet, Vincent was standing between us and a firing squad.
Suddenly, the gunfire stopped.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the warehouse.
"Vincent?" Carlo called out, his voice echoing in the vast space. "You out of shells, son?"
No answer.
I peeked over the edge of the machinery. Vincent was leaning heavily against the steel pillar. He had dropped the shotgun. A dark red stain was spreading rapidly across the white shirt of his tuxedo.
He had been hit.
Carlo stood up slowly, a cruel smile pulling at his scarred face. He picked up his silver revolver with his left hand.
"You always were too sentimental," Carlo said, limping toward Vincent. "It makes a man weak."
He raised the revolver toward his own son’s head.
"Mom, do something!" Anthony begged.
I scanned the floor. The pistol I had dropped earlier was kicked ten feet away. I would never reach it in time.
But my mother didn't reach for a gun.
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled, faded piece of paper.
"Carlo!" my mother shouted, standing up from behind our cover.
Carlo paused, turning his gun toward her. "Get back down, Martha, or you die first."
"You don't want to kill him, Carlo," my mother said, her voice echoing with terrifying authority. She held up the crumpled paper. "Because if you kill him, you'll never find out what happened to your other son."
The air left the room.
Vincent, bleeding against the pillar, looked up in shock.
Carlo froze. The revolver in his hand wavered. "What are you talking about? Vincent is my only child."
"No, he isn't," my mother said, stepping out into the open.
She walked slowly toward Carlo, holding the paper out.
I recognized it. It was a child’s drawing. Stick figures drawn in crayon. I had seen it in my mother’s memory box years ago. She always told me it was something I drew in kindergarten.
Carlo snatched the paper from her hand.
He stared at it. It was a drawing of a man, a woman, and two little boys holding hands. Underneath, written in jagged, child-like letters, was the name: Tommy.
"My wife had a miscarriage," Carlo whispered, his voice stripped of all its venom. "Before she died. The baby didn't survive."
"The baby survived," my mother corrected softly. "But your wife knew what you were, Carlo. She knew you would turn both of your sons into monsters. So when she went into labor early, she paid a nurse to tell you the child died."
Carlo stared at the drawing, his hands shaking. "Where is he?"
"I know where he is," my mother said. "I’ve always known. But you let us walk out of here right now, or I take that secret to my grave."
Carlo looked at the paper, then at Vincent bleeding on the floor, and finally at my mother.
For the first time in his life, the ghost of Chicago looked utterly defeated.
He lowered his gun.
"Go," Carlo whispered.
My mother didn't hesitate. She rushed to Vincent, grabbing his uninjured arm. "Evie! Anthony! Help me!"
We ran to Vincent, pulling his heavy frame up. He groaned in agony but managed to stand, leaning heavily on Anthony and me.
We dragged him out the side door, into the freezing night air, leaving Carlo standing alone under the harsh light, staring at a child’s drawing.
We stumbled through the dark gravel lot until we found a stolen sedan Vincent had left running near the fence. We shoved Vincent into the back seat. I jumped in next to him, pressing my hands hard against his bleeding side.
My mother took the wheel. Anthony sat shotgun.
The tires squealed as we tore out of the industrial park.
"Vincent," I cried, feeling his warm blood soaking through my fingers. "Stay awake. Look at me."
Vincent’s head lolled back against the seat. His eyes were half-open, glassy and pale.
He looked at me, a weak, sad smile crossing his lips.
"I told you I'd get out, Evie," he whispered.
"Don't talk," I sobbed. "Just hold on."
Vincent reached into his blood-soaked pocket. He pulled out a folded piece of heavy cardstock and pressed it into my hand.
"What is this?" I asked.
"The transfer documents," Vincent choked out, coughing up blood. "I didn't sign them over to Dominic. I signed them over to you."
He closed his eyes.
"Vincent!" I screamed.
But he didn't move.
I looked down at the documents in my hands. The entire Moretti empire now belonged to me.
"Mom," Anthony said from the front seat, his voice trembling as he looked at a piece of mail he had found in the glove compartment.
"Not now, Anthony," I cried.
"Mom, look," he insisted, passing the envelope back to me.
I took it. It was addressed to Vincent.
But the return address wasn't a business or a shell company.
It was a federal prison in New York.
May you like
And the sender’s name printed in the corner was Thomas Moretti.
"Vincent knew," I whispered, the horrifying realization washing over me. "Vincent knew he had a brother."
