Chapter 3 - The Silver Locket in the Shadows
The silence in the dining room felt suffocating.
Emily stared at the terrified, heartbreaking look on the mafia boss's face. Dominic Moretti, a man who never showed weakness, was holding the silver locket as if it were a live grenade.
“Your sister?” Emily whispered, her voice trembling. “No, that’s impossible. My mother’s name was Clara. She died when I was a baby. My father gave this to me.”
Dominic stood up slowly. He looked from the faded photograph in the locket to Emily’s face. He studied the shape of her jaw, the shade of her green eyes, the slight wave in her dark hair.
“Clara was my older sister,” Dominic said, his voice dropping to a raw, painful rasp. “She disappeared when I was fourteen. The police said she ran away. A year later, we found her car at the bottom of the Chicago River. They told us she drowned.”
Emily’s heart pounded against her ribs. She pulled Dominic’s suit jacket tighter around her shoulders, suddenly feeling freezing cold.
“My father told me she died of pneumonia,” Emily stammered. “He raised me alone in a little apartment on the South Side. He never talked about her family. He said they abandoned her.”
Dominic’s jaw clenched. The sorrow in his eyes was rapidly being replaced by a dark, dangerous fury.
“Abandoned her?” he repeated. “My father tore this city apart looking for her. We never stopped looking.”
Isabella tugged on her father’s sleeve. “Daddy? Why are you mad at Emily?”
Dominic immediately softened. He knelt down to his daughter’s eye level.
“I’m not mad at Emily, sweetheart,” he said gently, stroking her hair. “Daddy just found out a very big secret. Can you do me a favor? Can you go to your room and wait for Mrs. Dawson? She’s going to bring you some warm milk.”
Isabella looked at Emily’s bandaged foot. “Is Emily going to stay?”
“Yes,” Dominic promised. “Emily is going to stay.”
Satisfied, the little girl nodded and ran off toward the grand staircase.
Once she was gone, Dominic turned back to Emily. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by the calculating, ruthless gaze of a syndicate boss.
“Who is your father, Emily?” he demanded. “What is his name?”
Vanessa’s parting words echoed in Emily’s mind. Wait until he finds out who your father really is. He won’t just fire you. He’ll bury you.
Emily swallowed her fear. She had nothing to hide. She loved her father.
“His name is Arthur Parker,” she said clearly. “He was a truck driver. He broke his back in an accident five years ago. He’s in a care facility now. I work here to pay for his medical bills.”
Dominic frowned. “Arthur Parker. The name means nothing to me.”
He paced across the marble floor, running a hand through his dark hair.
“If Arthur was married to my sister, why did he hide you? Why did he let you grow up in poverty when you had a family with endless resources? And why did Vanessa know about it?”
Emily froze. “Vanessa?”
“Before she left, Vanessa threatened you,” Dominic said, his eyes narrowing. “She knew who your father was. She knew something I didn't.”
Emily’s mind raced. Vanessa Carlisle came from a family of wealthy socialites, old money that had recently partnered with the Moretti syndicate. Why would a woman like that know anything about a disabled truck driver on the South Side?
“Mr. Moretti,” Emily whispered, a sudden, sickening realization dawning on her. “Two weeks ago, Vanessa asked me to clean her private office. I found an envelope on her desk. It had my father’s name on it.”
Dominic stopped pacing. “What was inside?”
“I didn't open it,” Emily said quickly. “I swear. But I saw the return address. It was from the Carlisle Estate Management firm. I thought it was just a coincidence. Parker is a common name.”
Dominic’s expression darkened. “Vanessa’s family manages offshore accounts. If they were sending mail regarding your father, it means they are involved in his finances.”
He walked over to the sideboard and picked up his phone. He dialed a number and held it to his ear.
“Marcus,” Dominic said, his voice cold and authoritative. “I need you to pull every financial record the Carlisle family has regarding a man named Arthur Parker. Do it quietly. And prepare my car.”
He hung up and looked at Emily.
“Put your shoe on,” Dominic ordered gently. “We are going to see your father.”
“Now?” Emily asked, looking at the grandfather clock. “It’s almost midnight. Visiting hours are over.”
“I own the hospital,” Dominic replied.
Ten minutes later, Emily was sitting in the passenger seat of Dominic’s armored black SUV. She wore a pair of soft sneakers the housekeeper had brought her, and Dominic’s oversized jacket was still draped over her shoulders.
The rain lashed against the windshield as they sped through the dark Chicago streets.
Emily’s stomach twisted in knots. She was about to introduce the most dangerous man in the city to her fragile, bedridden father.
When they arrived at the St. Jude Care Facility, the night staff immediately scrambled out of Dominic’s way. He didn't say a word, just followed Emily down the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway to Room 412.
Emily pushed the door open.
“Dad?” she whispered into the darkness.
There was no answer.
Emily reached out and flicked on the light switch.
The hospital bed was empty. The sheets were stripped bare. The small vase of flowers Emily had brought him yesterday was gone.
“Where is he?” Emily panicked, rushing to the closet. It was empty.
Dominic stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space. He walked over to the nightstand.
Sitting perfectly in the center of the wooden table was a crisp, white envelope.
Dominic picked it up. It was addressed to Emily.
With trembling hands, Emily took the envelope and tore it open.
It wasn't a letter from her father.
It was a printed, one-way train ticket to New York, departing at 6:00 AM.
May you like
And attached to the ticket was a small, handwritten note on expensive crimson stationery.
I warned you, little rat. Take the train, or they’ll find him in the river just like your mother. — V.
