Chapter 3 - THE RED COAT
I burst into the cold Chicago night air, gasping for breath.
The alley behind the mansion was completely dark, save for the taillights of a single black sedan idling near the dumpsters.
A man stood by the driver's side.
He was wearing a heavy red wool coat.
"Mrs. Moretti," he said urgently, opening the back door. "Get in."
"Where is my son?" I demanded, refusing to move. "Anthony ran toward the kitchens. I am not leaving without him."
The man checked his watch. "He’s already secure. Rosa’s team intercepted him in the pantry. He’s in the second vehicle."
I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Could I trust him?
Could I trust anyone?
My husband of seventeen years had just walked out while his underboss pointed a gun at our child. My sister, carrying Vincent's baby, had orchestrated the whole thing.
"Prove it," I said, my voice trembling but fierce. "Prove my son is safe."
The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
He handed it to me under the dim glow of the streetlamp.
It was a child's drawing.
Stick figures in crayon. A boy, a mother, and a large dog.
Written at the top in sloppy seven-year-old handwriting: To Mom, love Anthony.
I kept this drawing folded inside my bedside table for ten years. Only Anthony knew it was there.
"He told me to give you this," the driver said gently. "He said you’d know he was okay."
Tears spilled over my cheeks.
I climbed into the car.
The driver slammed the door and we sped into the night, leaving the only home I had known for nearly two decades behind.
We drove in silence for twenty minutes, winding through the industrial district.
I looked down at my wrist.
The silver bracelet Rosa had given me was heavy. I traced the intricate floral pattern my father had engraved for my mother on their anniversary.
She survived the fire.
If she was alive, why did she leave me? Why did she let me mourn her?
And more importantly, why did she let me welcome Claire—the daughter who supposedly set the fire—into my home?
The car stopped outside a rusted warehouse on the riverfront.
The driver escorted me inside.
The warehouse was dark, smelling of oil and old wood, but a small office in the back was illuminated by a single desk lamp.
Anthony was sitting on a metal folding chair, drinking from a bottle of water.
"Anthony!" I sobbed, rushing forward and pulling him into my arms.
He held onto me so tightly his hands shook.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered into my shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I thought if I gave the files to the FBI, Dad would have to surrender. I didn't know they would come to kill us."
I pulled back, holding his face.
"It's not your fault. You were trying to protect us."
"Mrs. Moretti."
A new voice echoed from the shadows of the office.
I turned.
A woman stepped into the light.
She looked older, her hair fully silver, a terrible burn scar covering the left side of her neck and jaw.
But her eyes were exactly the same.
"Mom," I breathed, my knees going weak.
My mother gave me a sad, broken smile.
"Hello, Evelyn."
I wanted to run to her. To hold her. But anger surged through my grief.
"Three years," I cried. "I buried an empty casket for you! Why?"
My mother walked to the desk and picked up a manila folder.
"Because if Vincent knew I was alive, he would have killed you both."
She opened the folder and handed me a glossy photograph.
It was Claire.
But she wasn't pregnant.
And the man standing next to her, holding a duffel bag of cash, wasn't Vincent.
May you like
It was Dominic.
"Claire isn't carrying Vincent's child," my mother said softly. "She's carrying Dominic's. And they’ve been planning a coup against your husband for a very long time."
