Chapter 3 - THE RED COAT
“Where is he?”
Rosie didn’t realize she had stepped forward, closing the distance between herself and the mafia boss.
Her hands shook as she snatched the crayon drawing from Lorenzo’s grip.
The paper was slightly crumpled, smelling faintly of old flour and damp brick.
It was definitely Leo’s. He drew the chimney crooked every time.
“Where is my nephew?” Rosie’s voice rose, the polished hotel manager persona completely shattering.
“Safe. For now,” Lorenzo said, unbothered by her sudden aggression.
“My sister—”
“Your sister is currently on a flight to Seattle for a marketing conference,” Mateo interrupted from the doorway. “She left the boy with a babysitter. The babysitter has a gambling problem.”
Rosie felt the room tilt.
Her sister, Sarah, was a single mother working eighty hours a week. Rosie usually watched Leo, but the Drake’s massive weekend wedding had made it impossible.
“The babysitter sold him out?” Rosie asked, her stomach twisting.
“Worse,” Lorenzo said. “She owed money to the wrong vendor. Salvatore Rossi.”
The truffle importer. The man Rosie had just cursed out on the phone.
The realization hit her like a physical blow.
She hadn’t just secured the wedding supplies.
She had just humiliated the man holding her nephew.
“Why would Rossi take a child to my grandmother’s empty bakery?” Rosie demanded, her mind spinning. “That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense if you know what is hidden under the floorboards,” Lorenzo said.
He reached over and gently closed the silver pocket watch, slipping it back into his vest.
“Fifty years ago, your grandmother kept the ledgers for my father. She was brilliant. Invisible. Just like you.”
Lorenzo paced slowly toward the velvet drapes.
“When my father was betrayed, Elara hid the master ledger. It contains the names of every corrupt judge, every dirty union boss, and every supply line in Chicago. Including Rossi’s.”
Answer One, Open Two.
Rosie gripped the edge of the oak table.
“You let Dante take the blame tonight. You set a trap.”
“Dante is a fool, but he is a useful fool,” Lorenzo said softly. “Rossi has been searching for that ledger for a decade. He found out you inherited the building. He took the boy there to tear the place apart without raising suspicion.”
“We need to go to the police,” Rosie said firmly.
Mateo let out a harsh bark of laughter.
“The police chief plays golf with Rossi every Tuesday, Miss Hastings.”
Suddenly, the heavy dining room doors swung open.
A young man in a dark suit walked in, carrying a bundle of bright red fabric.
It was a child’s winter coat.
Leo’s coat.
“Boss,” the man said, breathing heavily. “We raided the bakery. Rossi’s men were already gone. But we found this by the ovens.”
Rosie lunged for the coat.
She pressed the small, puffy jacket to her chest. It smelled like grape juice and cold air.
But as she gripped the fabric, her fingers brushed against something hard inside the right pocket.
She reached in.
Her fingers pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver key.
It wasn’t a standard house key. It was an antique safety deposit key.
And wrapped around the bow of the key was a small strip of paper.
Rosie unfolded it with trembling fingers.
It was her grandmother’s handwriting.
Rosalina. If you find this, the flour has spoiled.
Rosie stared at the paper.
Her grandmother had died of a sudden heart attack twelve years ago.
Or so the hospital had said.
“She knew,” Rosie whispered, the horrifying realization washing over her. “She knew they were coming for her.”
May you like
Lorenzo’s expression hardened.
“Elara didn’t die of a heart attack, Rosie. And if we don’t find that ledger before sunrise, your nephew won’t make it to his seventh birthday.”
