Chapter 3 - THE TORN COAT
"Rachel?"
Luca’s voice pulled me out of my paralyzing shock.
He was standing right in front of me, his eyes dropping from my pale face to the photograph trembling in my hands.
He reached out and gently took the picture from me.
He turned it over, reading Vanessa’s handwritten death sentence.
His jaw tightened, the muscles ticking beneath his skin.
"Who is this man?" Luca asked, his voice low and demanding.
"My father," I whispered, tears spilling over my eyelashes. "Thomas Bennett."
Luca looked closely at the photograph again.
The grocery store in the background was blurry, but my father’s face was unmistakable. He looked tired, wearing his old gray wool coat, carrying a plastic bag of oranges.
"Your father is a retired bookkeeper," Luca stated, remembering the employee file he had read when I was hired.
"Yes," I choked out. "He’s sixty-eight. He has arthritis. He’s never hurt a fly. Why would Vanessa want to kill him?"
Luca didn't answer immediately.
He flipped the photograph over again, staring at the blurred background.
"That’s not just a grocery store," Luca said quietly.
He pointed to the edge of the photo. Just behind my father’s shoulder, partially obscured by a streetlight, was a faded brick building with a heavy steel door.
"That’s the old commercial laundry on 18th Street," Luca said.
I frowned, wiping my eyes. "He lives two blocks from there. It’s been abandoned for years."
"It’s not abandoned," Luca corrected, his voice hardening. "It’s a secure document storage facility for the Romano family."
My blood ran cold.
Everyone in Chicago knew the Romano name. They were the rival syndicate. The family that had waged a bloody turf war against Luca’s father two decades ago.
"I don't understand," I stammered, gripping my aching ribs. "My dad doesn't know any mobsters. He struggles to pay for his heating bill."
Luca looked at me, a dangerous realization dawning in his dark eyes.
"Vanessa’s maiden name is Bellini," Luca said slowly. "But her mother’s maiden name was Romano."
The room seemed to tilt.
Vanessa wasn't just a socialite looking for a billionaire husband.
She was a Trojan horse.
"She’s using the engagement party," Luca murmured, piecing it together with terrifying speed. "All my top lieutenants are downstairs drinking champagne. My security is focused on the estate. The city is wide open tonight."
He looked down at the photograph.
"If your father was anywhere near that storage facility, Vanessa thinks he saw something. Or took something."
"We have to go to him," I panicked, grabbing Luca’s sleeve. "Mr. Moretti, please. He’s all I have."
Luca didn't pull away.
He looked at the desperate tears streaming down my face.
"I told you once tonight that you wouldn't lose your job, Rachel," Luca said firmly. "Now I'm telling you that you won't lose your father."
He pulled out his phone and dialed the security desk.
"Lock down the front gates," Luca ordered. "Nobody leaves the estate. Tell the guests I’ve ordered a special vintage of champagne to be brought up from the cellar and it will take twenty minutes."
"Boss, Miss Bellini is asking where you are," the guard replied.
"Tell her I’m handling a minor crisis in the kitchen. Keep her in the dining room."
He hung up.
"Come with me," Luca said.
We didn't take the main stairs. Luca led me down the narrow servants' corridor, out through the laundry room, and into the massive, heated underground garage.
He bypassed the chauffeur-driven sedans and walked directly to an unassuming, dark gray SUV.
"Get in," he said.
We sped out of the estate through the private service gate, the heavy tires gripping the icy Chicago roads.
The drive to the South Side took twenty-five agonizing minutes.
I clutched the dashboard the entire way, praying I wouldn't be too late.
My father lived in a small, run-down apartment building above a bakery.
Luca parked the SUV in the alley behind the building. He drew a sleek black handgun from his shoulder holster before stepping out into the freezing night.
"Stay behind me," he ordered.
We hurried up the rusted fire escape.
My father’s kitchen window was dark.
Luca tested the window frame. It was unlocked.
He pushed it open and climbed inside silently, signaling for me to follow.
The apartment was dead quiet.
And it had been completely destroyed.
Chairs were overturned. The sofa cushions were slashed open. Drawers were pulled out and emptied onto the cheap linoleum floor.
"Dad!" I screamed, forgetting to be quiet.
I ran toward his small bedroom, ignoring the sharp pain in my ribs.
The bedroom was empty.
The mattress was flipped off the box spring.
"He’s not here," I sobbed, sinking to my knees amid the wreckage of my childhood home. "They took him, Luca. They killed him."
Luca walked into the bedroom, his eyes scanning the chaos with professional detachment.
"He’s not dead," Luca said.
I looked up. "How do you know?"
"Because there’s no blood. If they wanted to kill him here, they would have. They’re looking for something. And they took him alive to tell them where it is."
Luca crouched down beside the flipped mattress.
He reached out and pulled something from beneath the twisted bedsheets.
It was my father’s old gray wool coat.
The left sleeve was torn open, the lining completely shredded.
"They searched his coat," Luca said, examining the torn fabric.
But as Luca moved the coat, I saw something slide out of the small, hidden interior pocket my mother had sewn for him years ago to hide his emergency cash.
A small, stiff piece of cardboard fell onto the floor.
I picked it up.
It wasn't cash.
It was a faded, yellow baggage claim ticket.
And stamped across the top in bold black letters was a location.
O'HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - TERMINAL THREE.
May you like
My breath caught in my throat.
It was the exact terminal where Mia was currently sitting.
