Chapter 2 - A SECRET IN THE MACHINE ROOM
The stairwell was narrow, smelling of old dust and damp concrete.
Vincent walked two steps ahead of me.
He didn’t look back to see if I was following.
He knew I was.
When a man like Vincent Moretti tells you to walk, you walk. You don't ask about your shift, and you certainly don't ask about your paycheck.
We reached the basement level.
The heavy steel door to the machine room was already cracked open.
Vincent stopped.
He didn’t touch the handle. He just looked at the sliver of darkness beyond it.
"The manager said you have a son," Vincent said softly, his eyes still on the door.
I froze.
"A nephew," I corrected, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Leo. He’s seven. I’ve raised him since my sister passed."
"Who is watching him tonight?"
"My neighbor, Mrs. Gable."
Vincent nodded once. "Good."
He pushed the door open with the toe of his expensive leather shoe.
The machine room was a cavern of grease-stained concrete, thick cables, and the massive mechanical drum that controlled the service elevator.
The air was heavy with the sharp scent of ozone and burnt oil.
It smelled exactly like my father’s work clothes.
"Show me," Vincent said.
I stepped into the room. My hands were shaking, but my eyes knew exactly what to look for.
I walked past the main control panel and went straight to the governor—the safety mechanism designed to catch the car if the cables failed.
My breath caught.
"The tension weight is gone," I whispered.
Vincent moved to stand beside me. "Explain."
"If the main cable snaps, the governor is supposed to trip the brakes. Someone removed the weight." I pointed to a heavy iron bracket that hung empty. "They didn't just want the elevator to fall. They wanted to make sure the brakes didn't stop it."
Vincent stared at the empty bracket.
His face was a mask of cold stone.
"Someone who knows elevators," he said.
"Or someone who paid a lot of money to someone who does," I replied.
I crouched down, shining my phone’s flashlight underneath the drum.
That was when I saw it.
Tucked behind the grease catch.
A small, glinting object.
I reached out and pulled it free.
It was a silver rosary.
Not a cheap one. Heavy, solid silver, with a distinct black cross.
I stood and handed it to Vincent.
"Answer me honestly, Grace," he said, taking the beads. His fingers brushed mine. They were freezing. "Could Mr. Walsh have done this?"
"No," I said firmly. "The tension weight is eighty pounds. Mr. Walsh couldn't lift a crate of gin."
Vincent looked down at the rosary.
His jaw tightened.
"This belongs to my brother, Dominic," he said.
The silence in the room became suffocating.
Vincent Moretti was supposed to be the undisputed king of Chicago. But if his own brother was trying to drop him down an elevator shaft, the entire city was about to bleed.
"Answer one question, you open two more," Vincent muttered.
Suddenly, the heavy steel door behind us slammed shut.
The deadbolt slid into place with a sickening clack.
Then, the lights went out.
From the darkness on the other side of the door, Frankie Russo’s voice echoed.
May you like
"Sorry, Boss. Dominic says hello."
Then, the smell of gasoline began pouring under the door frame.
