Chapter 4 - THE FACE OF THE DRIVER
The dusty back office of the grocery store fell completely silent.
Marco stared at me, his dark eyes intense and unblinking. "Your landlord killed my mother?"
"I... I didn't know," I stammered, stepping back, terrified they would think I was involved. "He owns the apartment building where my mom and I live in Queens. He's always been cruel to us, but I never knew he was a hitman."
Frank gently squeezed my arm. "It's not your fault, Emma. You weren't even born when this happened."
Luca wiped his face, staring at me. "If this guy is still alive, and Elizabeth Whitmore used him once... she might be using him again."
Marco pulled out his phone. "Give me the address, Emma."
I rattled off our address in Queens. Marco barked orders into the phone, dispatching a team of his best men to secure the building.
"My mother is there alone," I panicked, my voice cracking. "She can barely walk. If Victor finds out we know..."
"My men will be there in ten minutes," Marco promised, his voice softening slightly. "She will be safe. I swear it."
He turned back to Luca. "Where is the drop? Where are you supposed to meet Elizabeth to get Matteo back?"
Luca swallowed hard. "She didn't give me a location. She said she would call me at midnight to confirm the store was burned down. Then she'd give me instructions."
Marco checked his watch. It was 11:15 PM. They had forty-five minutes.
"We wait for the call," Marco said. "But we need leverage. If we don't have the ledger, we need the man who drove the car. We need Victor to confess on tape."
My phone buzzed in my apron pocket.
I pulled it out. The caller ID said Mom.
Relief flooded my chest. I answered it immediately. "Mom? Are you okay? Marco's men are coming to get you—"
"Hello, Emma."
The voice on the other end wasn't my mother's. It was smooth, aristocratic, and completely devoid of warmth.
It was Elizabeth Whitmore.
My knees gave out. Marco caught my arm before I hit the floor.
"Mrs. Whitmore?" I breathed.
"Your mother is sitting right next to me, dear," Elizabeth said pleasantly. "She's having a lovely cup of tea. Victor was kind enough to let us into your apartment."
Tears spilled down my cheeks. "Please. Don't hurt her."
"I have no intention of hurting anyone else tonight, Emma," Elizabeth sighed. "Unfortunately, my daughter dropped her emerald bracelet at the mansion. Christina is notoriously careless. I believe you picked it up?"
I looked at Frank. He was staring at me, terrified.
"I want the bracelet," Elizabeth said. "And I know Luca didn't burn the store down. I have men watching the street. I want the photograph he kept from the ledger."
"And if we give them to you?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Then you get your crippled mother back," Elizabeth said coldly. "And Luca gets his little boy. We all walk away."
Marco held out his hand. I put the phone on speaker.
"Elizabeth," Marco said, his voice deadly calm.
"Ah, Marco. Happy birthday."
"Where is the exchange?"
"The Staten Island Ferry Terminal. Terminal 4. Midnight," Elizabeth instructed. "Just you, Luca, and the maid. Bring any of your armed thugs, and Victor will break this sweet old woman's neck."
The line went dead.
I dropped the phone, burying my face in my hands. I had dragged my innocent mother into a mafia war just by trying to help an old man eat his dinner.
Frank reached out and gently touched my hair. "We will get her back, Emma. I promise."
Marco turned to his men. "Stand down the assault on the apartment. We do this at the terminal."
As Marco turned to leave the office, Frank suddenly swayed.
The old man gasped, clutching his chest. He stumbled forward, his knees buckling.
"Dad!" Marco shouted, catching him before he hit the ground.
Frank's breathing was shallow and rapid. He reached a trembling hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, amber prescription bottle.
"My pills," Frank wheezed. "Christina... Christina said to take two if my chest hurt."
Marco fumbled with the childproof cap, his hands shaking almost as badly as his father's. He spilled the small white pills into his palm.
"Here, Pop, take them," Marco said, lifting a bottle of water.
"Wait!" I yelled.
Before Frank could swallow the pills, I slapped Marco's hand. The pills scattered across the dusty floor.
"Are you crazy?" Marco roared, furious. "He needs his heart medication!"
I dropped to my knees, picking up one of the small white pills. I held it up to the flashlight beam.
Before taking this job, I had spent four years working as a pharmacy technician to pay for my mother's surgeries. I knew pills. I knew shapes, scores, and imprints.
I looked at the imprint on the pill. T-17.
My blood ran completely cold.
"Mr. Bellini," I whispered, looking at Frank's pale, trembling face. "These aren't heart pills."
Marco froze. "What are they?"
"This is an aggressive, high-dose muscle relaxant mixed with a neuro-suppressant," I said, my voice shaking with horror. "It's used for severe psychiatric patients to keep them docile. If an eighty-year-old man takes this every day..."
I looked at Marco.
"It causes severe tremors," I whispered. "It causes confusion, weakness, and loss of motor skills. It mimics the final stages of Parkinson's."
Marco stared at the pills on the floor.
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Frank wasn't dying. His heart was fine. His mind was fine.
For eight months, Christina Whitmore had been systematically, intentionally poisoning him.
