Chapter 3 - THE PHOTOGRAPH IN THE COAT
"Get back."
Vincent’s voice wasn't panicked. It was a command.
In the pitch-black room, the smell of gasoline was growing stronger by the second.
I stumbled backward, hitting my hip against the iron drum.
I heard Vincent moving in the dark.
Fabric ripped. Then the heavy, metallic sound of something hitting the steel door.
Clang.
"Frankie locked the deadbolt," I coughed, my eyes burning. "It won't give."
"There's an emergency vent," Vincent said, his voice tight with effort. "Above the primary switchgear. Did your father ever tell you about the ventilation in these old pre-war shafts?"
My mind raced.
"Yes! They connect to the alley grates."
"Climb."
He grabbed my waist in the dark, lifting me effortlessly.
My hands scrambled against the greasy concrete wall until I felt the iron slats of the vent.
I pulled. It didn't budge.
"It's bolted!" I choked out.
"Break it."
I heard a heavy scrape. Vincent had blindly shoved a loose steel pipe into my hand.
I swung.
The metal shattered the old cast-iron grate.
Smoke was already filling the room. A match flared beneath the door, igniting the fumes into a wall of roaring orange heat.
"Go!" Vincent ordered.
I squeezed through the narrow opening, scraping my shoulders.
I reached down into the smoke.
Vincent’s hand found mine. His grip was like a vice.
I pulled with everything I had. He hauled himself up just as the machine room erupted in a ball of flame below us.
We spilled out into the freezing alley, gasping for air.
The rain was coming down in sheets.
Vincent lay on the wet asphalt for three seconds.
Then he stood up, smoothing his ruined suit jacket.
"You're bleeding," I said, pointing to a cut on his forehead.
He didn't care.
He walked to a black town car parked in the shadows. He reached under the wheel well and pulled out a magnetic spare key.
"Get in."
I didn't argue.
Once inside, he turned on the overhead light and reached into his pocket.
He pulled out the silver rosary.
"Frankie said Dominic sent him," Vincent said quietly. "But Dominic has been dead for three days. I buried him myself on Tuesday."
My stomach dropped.
Answer one. Open two.
If Dominic was dead, who left his rosary? Who gave Frankie the order?
Vincent leaned over and opened the glovebox. He pulled out a dark wool coat.
"Put this on. You're freezing."
I took the coat. It smelled like expensive cologne and gun oil.
As I slipped my arms into the sleeves, my hand brushed something in the pocket.
Stiff paper.
I pulled it out.
It was an old Polaroid photograph.
I stared at it under the dim yellow light of the car.
My breath stopped entirely.
"Where did you get this?" my voice trembled.
Vincent looked over. "It was in Dominic's belongings."
The picture showed two men standing in front of a familiar service van.
One was Frankie Russo.
The other, looking terrified and handing over an envelope of cash, was my father.
May you like
On the back, written in my father's handwriting, were three words:
For Leo's safety.
