Chapter 3 - THE WRONG COUSIN
Vincent’s cousin was named Carlo Bellini.
Forty-six.
Married.
Two daughters.
President of Bellini Restoration.
And according to Vincent, one of the few men in Chicago he had trusted since childhood.
Audrey sat at a long kitchen table while men came and went carrying phones, tablets, and clipped sentences.
She hated every second of it.
Not because she was afraid anymore.
Because nobody explained anything unless she interrupted.
So she interrupted.
“Does Carlo know I exist?”
Mateo looked at Vincent.
Vincent answered.
“Probably not.”
“Does he know the shooter missed?”
“Yes.”
“Then whoever planned this now knows something changed.”
“Yes.”
“And the café has cameras?”
“Police took copies.”
“Could they show me?”
“Yes.”
Audrey stared.
“So why am I sitting here?”
That silenced room.
Vincent looked at her.
“Because I thought keeping you close was safest.”
“There’s that word again.”
“What?”
“Keeping.”
His expression changed.
Fair.
He corrected.
“Because I thought offering you protection here was safest.”
“Offering?”
“Yes.”
“Then I can leave?”
Vincent hesitated.
Bad.
Audrey stood.
“There it is.”
“No.”
He rose too.
“You can leave.”
“Good.”
“I strongly advise against going home tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because if the person who marked me saw you—”
“You already said that.”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t trust your house?”
Silence.
Then Mateo said:
“Hotel.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Public hotel?”
“Under another name.”
Audrey looked between them.
“No.”
Mateo blinked.
“What do you want?”
“My sister.”
Vincent looked at her.
“You have a sister?”
“Older.”
“Where?”
“Evanston.”
“Does anyone know?”
“Not from work.”
Vincent thought.
“Can she keep quiet?”
Audrey laughed.
“You really don’t understand sisters.”
“No.”
“She can keep me alive.”
“Good enough.”
He arranged transportation.
Not armored convoy.
One car.
Mateo.
Audrey.
Vincent stayed behind.
That surprised her.
“You’re not coming?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You asked to leave my house.”
Simple.
Good.
At the door, Vincent handed her a card.
No dramatic embossed crest.
Just number.
“If you remember anything.”
Audrey took it.
“Or if someone follows you?”
“Yes.”
“Call police first.”
Vincent paused.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
That mattered.
She went to her sister’s apartment.
Samantha opened the door wearing pajama pants and fury.
“Where have you been?”
Then saw Mateo.
“Who is that?”
“Complicated.”
Mateo said:
“I’ll be outside.”
Samantha looked at him.
“You will be nowhere.”
Audrey almost smiled.
“It’s okay.”
“No.”
“Sam.”
Then Samantha saw the news alert.
Café shooting.
One injured pedestrian.
Possible targeted attack.
Her face changed.
Inside, Audrey told enough truth.
Not all mafia details.
Enough.
Samantha stared.
“So you dumped coffee on a mob boss.”
“Yes.”
“And someone tried to shoot him.”
“Yes.”
“And now his people think you saw something.”
“Yes.”
Samantha covered her face.
“You have always been bad at Thursdays.”
“It’s Wednesday.”
“Worse.”
That helped.
Audrey slept badly.
At 2:18 a.m., she remembered the man’s shoes.
Work boots.
Orange dust.
Not construction dust.
Fine red-orange powder.
She had wiped some from floor earlier.
Bellini Restoration handled brick and masonry.
Could fit.
Then another memory.
He wore a wedding ring.
Black band.
And one hand had a crescent-shaped burn mark.
Audrey texted Vincent.
The man had a burn scar between thumb and wrist. Crescent shape. Black wedding band. Orange dust on boots.
Reply came instantly.
Thank you. Stay inside.
Nothing else.
Good.
At 7:30, Samantha went to work.
Audrey stayed.
Mateo still outside.
She felt ridiculous.
At nine, police called to ask for statement.
Normal.
Audrey gave it.
Then Detective Marquez asked:
“Did the man who bumped Mr. Caruso speak?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Sorry, man.”
“Accent?”
Audrey thought.
Chicago.
Maybe South Side.
Nothing distinctive.
Then:
“He smelled like cloves.”
Detective paused.
“Cloves?”
“Yes.”
“Strong.”
“Like cigarettes?”
“No.”
“Gum?”
“Maybe.”
After call, Audrey texted Vincent that too.
Ten minutes later, he called.
First time.
“What?”
She answered.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Sorry.”
He tried again.
“Good morning.”
Ridiculous.
“What’s wrong?”
“Cloves.”
“What about them?”
“Carlo doesn’t chew clove gum.”
Audrey stared.
“Okay.”
“But his brother does.”
There it was.
“Brother?”
“Dario.”
“Age?”
“Forty-three.”
“Work?”
“Not with Bellini Restoration officially.”
“Unofficially?”
Vincent was silent.
“You have a lot of unofficial jobs.”
“Yes.”
“What does Dario do?”
“Collections.”
“Security.”
“Trouble.”
“Great.”
Then:
“Burn scar?”
“Yes.”
Audrey closed her eyes.
“So Dario marked you.”
“Looks likely.”
“Carlo involved?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would Dario use Carlo’s jacket without permission?”
“Maybe.”
“Family.”
Complicated.
Then Vincent said:
“Dario disappeared last night.”
Audrey’s pulse jumped.
“Before or after shooting?”
“After.”
“Carlo?”
“At home.”
“Police?”
“Questioned.”
“Answer?”
“He says he knew nothing.”
“Do you believe him?”
Silence.
“No.”
That answer came hard.
Audrey sat.
“What happens if he did know?”
Vincent’s voice changed.
“Lawyers.”
“Police.”
“And my organization makes decisions.”
She heard what he didn’t say.
Audrey said:
“Don’t make me part of that.”
“You’re not.”
“Good.”
Then Samantha’s door buzzer rang.
Audrey froze.
Nobody expected.
Mateo called instantly.
“Do not answer.”
She went to window.
Black sedan.
No plates visible from angle.
Mateo crossed street.
Two men emerged.
Audrey’s stomach tightened.
Then Mateo relaxed slightly.
One man raised badge.
Police.
Detective Marquez.
He came up.
“Ms. Hale.”
“What happened?”
“We found Dario Bellini’s vehicle.”
“Where?”
“Near Calumet Harbor.”
“Dario?”
“No.”
“What was inside?”
Detective hesitated.
“A rifle case.”
“Empty.”
“Burner phone.”
“Bellini Restoration jacket.”
“And a receipt from your café.”
Audrey felt cold.
“What does receipt say?”
“4:02 p.m.”
“Purchase?”
“Black coffee.”
She frowned.
“He didn’t buy anything.”
“Yes.”
Detective nodded.
“Receipt may have been generated after.”
“Why?”
“To establish he was there openly.”
“Or place someone else.”
Audrey thought.
“Who rang transaction?”
Detective looked at notes.
“Manager.”
Jenna.
Audrey froze.
“No.”
“What?”
“Jenna said he didn’t buy anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe she forgot.”
Audrey shook her head.
“No.”
Jenna never forgot a transaction.
She counted cups like money.
Then another thought.
Who had access to register afterward?
Jenna.
Audrey.
Shift supervisor Brendan.
And—
Carlo Bellini’s wife, Livia, owned the café building.
Audrey had met her twice.
Suddenly the café itself felt connected.
“Who owns our lease?”
She asked.
Detective looked up.
“Why?”
“Bellini Properties.”
His expression changed.
Yes.
The coffee shop was not random.
Vincent had chosen it because it was supposedly neutral family property.
Safe.
Someone knew exactly where he would sit.
Exactly which window.
Exactly when.
Then Audrey remembered something from previous week.
Jenna telling her:
Boss’s cousin reserved back table Tuesday, but then canceled.
“Wait.”
She looked at detective.
“Carlo was supposed to come to café Tuesday.”
“What?”
“A reservation.”
“Back table.”
“But he canceled.”
Detective wrote.
“Who told you?”
“Jenna.”
“Did Vincent know?”
“No idea.”
Audrey called him.
He answered.
She told him.
Silence.
Then:
“I was invited there by Carlo.”
Her blood went cold.
“What?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“He said he couldn’t make it but asked me to stop and meet a city contractor who never arrived.”
Audrey closed her eyes.
“Then Carlo chose the location.”
“Yes.”
“And Dario marked you.”
“Yes.”
That did not look like coincidence.
Then Vincent said:
“Stay with police.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing stupid.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“Audrey.”
“What?”
“I mean it.”
His voice softened.
“I am not going to Carlo.”
“Good.”
“Police are.”
Better.
An hour later, Carlo Bellini was gone.
His wife said he left before dawn.
Phone off.
Passport missing.
The betrayal had just become real.
But Audrey still felt something wrong.
Too easy.
Carlo invites Vincent.
Dario marks him.
Carlo runs.
A perfect line.
Too perfect.
She said that to Detective Marquez.
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because people who plan complicated murder don’t usually leave their name on every step.”
The detective smiled faintly.
“You watch too many shows.”
“I serve too many liars.”
Then Audrey remembered the receipt.
Generated after.
Someone wanted Dario placed.
Someone wanted Carlo placed.
Maybe both guilty.
Maybe not.
“Who printed receipt?”
She asked.
“We’re checking.”
“Time it printed?”
Detective looked.
“6:41 p.m.”
Audrey froze.
After shooting.
After police arrived?
The café had been evacuated around 4:30.
Who re-entered?
Police.
Owner.
Manager.
Building representative.
Livia Bellini.
Carlo’s wife.
Audrey’s skin prickled.
“What if the receipt was planted?”
Detective nodded slowly.
“Then someone is building a story.”
And suddenly Audrey understood that the coffee did more than save Vincent’s life.
It disrupted the timing so badly that whoever planned the killing had been forced to start manufacturing evidence afterward.
And hurried people make mistakes.
May you like
Even people inside mafia families.
---
