Chapter 3 - THE CAR KEYS AND THE COAT
The word war zone hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
I stared at Luca Moretti, my mind struggling to process the sudden, violent shift in reality. Ten minutes ago, I was clearing plates from a disastrous engagement dinner. Now, I was being told to flee before a Russian syndicate attacked the estate.
“I don't understand,” I stammered, my hands twisting into my apron. “If her brother owes them money, why would they attack you?”
“Because Vanessa is a Bellini,” Luca explained, his voice tight and urgent as he began moving through the dining room, pulling the heavy velvet curtains closed over the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Her family has ties. But more importantly, she knows the security codes to this property. If she runs to the Russians for protection tonight, she will hand them the keys to my front door as a bargaining chip.”
He turned to his son.
“Nico. Get your duffel bag. You aren't taking a bus tomorrow.”
Nico frowned, grabbing his blue bag off the chair. “Dad, I have to report to Great Lakes by noon. If I don't show up—”
“You’re not going to Great Lakes,” Luca interrupted, walking briskly toward the grand foyer. “I’m calling my contacts at the Navy. Your enlistment is being delayed due to a family emergency. You are going to the safe house.”
“I’m not hiding in a bunker while you fight a war!” Nico argued, following his father. “I’m twenty-one. I can fight.”
“You are not trained for this,” Luca shot back, spinning around to face his son. The terrifying Mafia Don was back, his eyes burning with absolute authority. “You are my son. You are the only thing in this world I care about keeping alive. You will get in the car, and you will go to the safe house. Do you understand me?”
Nico swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. He looked at the silver watch on his wrist, then nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Luca turned to me. “Claire. Go to your room. Pack a single bag. Five minutes.”
I didn't argue. I sprinted down the long, carpeted hallway toward the servant’s quarters in the west wing.
My heart hammered in my chest as I threw open my closet. I grabbed a small duffel bag and frantically shoved in a few changes of clothes, my toothbrush, and the small wooden box containing my late mother’s jewelry.
As I zipped the bag closed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked terrified. I was a housekeeper. I baked scones and polished silver. I didn't know how to survive a mafia turf war.
I ran back out to the grand foyer.
Luca and Nico were waiting by the heavy mahogany front doors. Luca had changed out of his suit jacket and was wearing a black tactical vest over his dress shirt. He was loading a sleek, black handgun with terrifying efficiency.
“Marco is bringing the armored SUV to the front,” Luca said, checking the magazine. He looked up at me. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir,” I breathed.
Suddenly, a deafening, metallic CRASH echoed from the back of the house.
The sound of shattering glass and splintering wood tore through the kitchen.
Luca froze.
“They didn't wait,” Luca whispered, his eyes widening.
The Russians were already inside.
“Go! Out the front!” Luca roared, shoving Nico and me toward the heavy front doors.
He didn't follow us. He turned and sprinted toward the kitchen, raising his weapon.
“Dad!” Nico screamed, trying to run after him, but I grabbed his arm with all my strength, hauling him toward the heavy oak doors.
We burst out into the freezing Chicago night. The rain was coming down in sheets, instantly soaking my uniform.
A massive, black armored SUV was idling at the bottom of the stone steps. Marco, Luca’s head of security, was standing by the open back door, holding an assault rifle.
“Get in!” Marco shouted over the roar of the rain.
Nico fought me, desperately trying to turn back toward the house. “We can't leave him! He’s alone in there!”
“Your father gave me an order, kid!” Marco yelled, grabbing Nico’s jacket and physically shoving him into the backseat. “My job is to keep you breathing!”
I scrambled in right behind him. Marco slammed the heavy armored door shut, plunging us into the dark, secure cabin. He jumped into the driver’s seat and slammed on the gas.
The SUV tore down the long, winding driveway, the tires screeching on the wet asphalt.
I looked back through the tinted rear window. The massive mansion was lit up against the stormy sky. In the kitchen windows, I saw the strobe-like flashes of gunfire.
Nico was staring out the window, tears of absolute panic streaming down his face. He pressed his hand against the glass.
“He’s going to die because of me,” Nico choked out, his voice cracking. “If I hadn't come back tonight, she wouldn't have been exposed. They wouldn't be attacking the house.”
“Nico, stop,” I said firmly, grabbing his shaking hand. “Your father is a survivor. He built this empire. He knows what he’s doing.”
I hoped to God I was right.
Marco drove erratically, weaving through the slick suburban streets to ensure we weren't being followed. The silence in the car was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers and Marco’s frantic chatter on his secure radio.
“Alpha team, respond,” Marco barked into the mic. “What is the status of the main house? I need eyes on the Boss.”
Static hissed through the speaker.
“Marco, it’s a bloodbath,” a panicked voice crackled back. “They breached the perimeter from the lake. There’s at least twenty of them. The Boss is pinned down in the west wing corridor.”
Nico let out a ragged sob, burying his face in his hands.
“We have to go back, Marco,” Nico pleaded, looking up at the security chief. “Please. Turn the car around. We have guns in the trunk, right? I know how to shoot.”
“I’m not turning this car around, Nico,” Marco said grimly, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror. “If the Boss dies tonight, you’re the head of the family. My orders are to get you to the safe house.”
“I don't want to be the head of the family!” Nico shouted, slamming his fist against the leather seat. “I want my dad!”
Marco didn't answer. He turned the SUV onto the interstate, accelerating to a terrifying speed.
We drove for forty agonizing minutes into the industrial district on the south side of Chicago. Marco pulled the SUV into a dark, abandoned warehouse complex. He drove straight into a massive, rusted shipping container, cutting the engine and the headlights instantly.
We sat in absolute darkness.
“Stay here,” Marco ordered quietly. “Lock the doors. I’m going to check the perimeter and try to raise the Boss on the radio again.”
Marco slipped out of the SUV, the heavy door thudding shut behind him.
The silence inside the car was terrifying. Nico was shaking violently, clutching the small silver watch on his wrist like a lifeline.
I didn't know what to say. I was a housekeeper. I didn't know how to comfort a young man whose father was currently fighting a war.
“He’s going to be okay, Nico,” I whispered softly, placing my hand over his.
“You don't know that, Claire,” Nico replied, his voice thick with tears. He looked at me in the dark. “He’s forty-nine. He’s not a young man anymore. He’s fighting twenty guys.”
He reached into his brown leather jacket, pulling his phone from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” I asked nervously.
“I’m calling the police,” Nico said, dialing 911.
“Nico, no!” I grabbed his wrist, panic surging through me. “Your father is a mafia boss! If you send the police to that house while he’s surrounded by illegal weapons and dead bodies, they’ll arrest him for murder! He’ll spend the rest of his life in federal prison!”
“It’s better than him dying in a hallway!” Nico fired back, tearing his arm away from me.
He raised the phone to his ear.
But before the call could connect, the driver’s side door of the SUV was violently yanked open.
A figure leaned into the car, illuminated by the dim dome light.
It wasn't Marco.
It was a man wearing a dark trench coat, his face bruised and bleeding. He held a suppressed pistol in his hand.
“Hang up the phone, kid,” the man growled, aiming the gun directly at Nico’s chest.
Nico froze, the phone slipping from his fingers.
The man reached in and grabbed Nico by the collar of his leather jacket, hauling him roughly out of the SUV.
“Hey!” I screamed, grabbing Nico’s arm to pull him back, but the man brutally backhanded me across the face with the heavy steel grip of the pistol.
I collapsed against the leather seats, my vision exploding into white stars, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.
I vaguely heard Nico shouting my name as he was dragged away into the dark warehouse.
I struggled to remain conscious, blinking rapidly to clear my vision. I dragged myself out of the SUV, falling onto the cold concrete floor.
“Marco!” I tried to scream, but it came out as a weak croak.
I looked around frantically.
Lying ten feet away, near the entrance of the shipping container, was Marco. He was facedown on the concrete, a dark pool of blood spreading rapidly beneath him.
They had found the safe house.
I scrambled to my feet, my head spinning. I had to find Nico.
I stumbled out into the dark warehouse, hiding behind a stack of wooden crates.
Fifty yards away, illuminated by a single, swinging industrial lightbulb, the man in the trench coat had Nico pinned against a concrete pillar.
But he wasn't alone.
Standing in the center of the light, wearing a pristine white suit that looked completely out of place in the filthy warehouse, was Vanessa Bellini’s brother, Dominic.
“Hello, Nicholas,” Dominic smiled coldly.
“Where’s my dad?” Nico demanded, struggling against the man holding him.
Dominic chuckled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, bloodstained object, tossing it onto the concrete at Nico’s feet.
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It was Luca’s black tactical vest, shredded by bullets.
“Your father,” Dominic smiled, “is dead.”
