Chapter 7 - THE RED SILK AND THE TRAITOR'S CAR
The alleyway behind the orphanage was dead quiet, save for the distant hum of Chicago traffic miles away.
Luca stared at the scrap of red silk in my hand. He recognized it instantly. It matched the custom designer coat Vanessa’s sister, Clara, had worn to dinner just a few hours ago.
“Clara,” Luca growled, his fists clenching at his sides. “She was at the table. She slipped out when I cleared the dining room.”
“She beat us here,” Marco said, stepping up behind Luca, his gun drawn. “Boss, if Clara took the boy, she’s not taking him to Whispering Pines. That was Vanessa’s cover. Clara is running. She knows the gig is up.”
Audrey knelt in the dirt and picked up the blue stuffed elephant. She brushed the dust off its soft ears. She looked at her brother and signed, tears filling her eyes.
He dropped his toy. He didn’t want to go with her.
Luca’s expression shattered for a microsecond before hardening back into stone.
“Marco, track Clara’s car,” Luca ordered. “Call the contacts at the toll booths. Bribe the traffic cam dispatchers. I want her license plate pinged across the entire state.”
“Right on it, Boss.” Marco pressed his earpiece and began barking orders.
I stood in the alley, my mind racing. Clara Bellini. I had served her wine tonight. She had seemed so quiet, so passive, letting Vanessa dominate the room. But she was part of the Rossi family’s orbit, just like Vanessa.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my apron pocket.
I jumped, startled by the vibration. I pulled it out.
It was a text message from an unknown number.
I opened it.
Emily. Tell Luca if he ever wants to see his brother’s son alive, he signs the estate over to the Rossi family by midnight. Or I put the boy on a private plane to Moscow, and you never see him again.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Mr. Moretti,” I gasped, holding out the phone.
Luca read the text. The vein in his neck throbbed.
“How did she get your number?” Marco asked, looking at me with a flash of renewed suspicion.
“I… I don’t know,” I stammered, terrified. “The staff directory? Vanessa had access to all our files.”
Luca didn’t accuse me. He just stared at the screen.
“Moscow,” Luca murmured. “She’s going to an airport. But not O’Hare or Midway. They’re too heavily monitored. She needs a private airstrip.”
“There’s a dozen private strips outside the city, Boss,” Marco said. “We can’t cover them all in time.”
I looked at the text message again. My father was a mechanic. He used to fix planes for wealthy clients when I was a little girl. I remembered the stories he told me.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said quickly. “My dad. When he used to… do courier runs. He always said the South Side syndicate favored the old crop-duster strip in Kankakee. It’s abandoned, but the runway is paved, and there’s no tower control. It’s perfect for ghosts flights.”
Luca looked at me. He didn’t question it.
“Kankakee,” Luca yelled to his men. “Move!”
We scrambled back into the SUVs. The tires spun on the asphalt, smoking as the heavy vehicles launched forward.
The drive was a blur of flashing streetlights and roaring engines. I sat in the back, clutching Audrey’s hand. She was holding the blue stuffed elephant tightly against her chest, her eyes closed in silent prayer.
Thirty minutes later, we tore off the main highway onto a cracked, unlit access road surrounded by tall cornfields.
At the end of the road, a rusted chain-link fence had been smashed open.
Through the windshield, I saw it.
A sleek, unmarked private jet was idling on the cracked tarmac. The turbines were whining, warming up for takeoff.
And parked right next to the stairs of the jet was a black Mercedes.
“Block the runway!” Luca shouted to his driver.
Our SUV surged forward, crashing through the broken fence. The driver slammed on the brakes, sliding the heavy vehicle sideways, perfectly blocking the nose of the jet.
The other three SUVs surrounded the plane in a tactical circle. Armed men poured out before the cars even fully stopped.
Luca threw his door open. He drew his weapon.
I stayed in the car with Audrey, my heart pounding so hard it hurt my ribs.
Through the tinted window, I watched Luca march toward the stairs of the plane.
The door of the black Mercedes flew open.
Clara Bellini stepped out. She was wearing the red silk coat. She looked terrified, holding a briefcase in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
But she wasn’t holding a child.
“Where is he?!” Luca roared, aiming his gun directly at her chest.
Clara threw her hands up, dropping the briefcase. “Don’t shoot! Luca, please!”
“Where is my nephew?!”
“I don’t have him!” Clara screamed, bursting into tears. “I swear to God, Luca, I don’t have him!”
Luca stepped closer, pressing the barrel of the gun to her forehead. “You sent the text. You took him from the orphanage. Where is Leo?”
“I didn’t take him!” Clara sobbed, her knees buckling. “I went to the orphanage, but someone beat me to it! The room was empty! I sent the text to buy time so I could escape!”
Luca froze. “If you didn’t take him… who did?”
Clara looked up, her mascara running down her cheeks.
“The Russians,” she whispered. “Vanessa promised the estate to the Rossi family, but she owed money to the Bratva, too. They found out about the boy. They got to him first, Luca. They took him.”
In the back of the SUV, Audrey gasped.
She wasn’t looking at Clara. She was looking at the back seat of Clara’s Mercedes.
Audrey pushed the SUV door open and ran out onto the tarmac.
“Audrey, no!” I yelled, running after her.
Audrey ignored the guns and the screaming. She ran straight to Clara’s car and threw open the back door.
Lying on the leather seat was a small, hand-drawn picture.
Audrey picked it up and showed it to me.
It was a drawing in crayon. A little boy, a woman, and a large, black wolf.
But written across the bottom, in jagged, terrifying Russian Cyrillic, were three words.
I didn’t speak Russian, but I didn’t need to.
May you like
Marco walked over and translated it, his voice completely hollow.
“Blood for blood.”
