Chapter 8 - THE FIRE TRUCK
Marco drove the SUV like a madman, tires hydroplaning as we tore through the slick Chicago streets. Luca was on his phone, dialling the mansion’s security team over and over.
Nothing. Only static.
“They used a jammer,” Marco growled, weaving through a red light.
I held Sam’s hand in the back seat, praying silently. Please, let them be okay. Little Leo. Sweet Uncle Joe.
We crashed through the front gates of the Gold Coast mansion. The heavy iron doors were hanging off their hinges. Two of Luca’s guards were lying unconscious on the lawn.
Luca kicked the front doors open. Smoke was billowing through the grand foyer.
“Joe!” Luca roared. “Leo!”
“Upstairs!” I screamed, pointing to the flames licking the mahogany banister. They were trying to burn the house down again, just like thirty-three years ago.
Luca sprinted up the burning stairs, ignoring the smoke. I followed close behind, grabbing a fire extinguisher from the hallway wall.
We burst into the master suite.
The room was ablaze, but in the center, a heavy oak wardrobe had been pushed against the bathroom door, barricading someone inside.
Standing in front of the flames was an older man in a bespoke suit—Vincent Romano himself. He held a gasoline canister in one hand and a lit cigar in the other.
“Welcome home, Luca,” Romano smiled, a vicious, triumphant grin. “The old man and the kid are in the bathroom. They’re going to burn, just like your mother.”
Luca raised his gun, but Romano held the cigar over a massive puddle of gasoline pooling at his feet.
“Shoot me, and the cigar drops. The whole floor goes up in two seconds,” Romano sneered. “Drop the gun, hand over the deed, and I’ll let them out.”
Luca hesitated. For a split second, the feared mafia boss was paralyzed by the ghost of his mother’s death.
But suddenly, a loud, mechanical roaring sound echoed from outside the shattered bedroom window.
Red flashing lights illuminated the smoke-filled room.
A massive blast of high-pressure water shattered the remaining window glass, slamming directly into Vincent Romano.
The force of the water lifted Romano off his feet, throwing him against the far wall and knocking him unconscious instantly. The water soaked the carpet, extinguishing the gasoline puddle and drowning the flames in seconds.
Luca and I stared out the broken window.
Hovering outside, strapped to the ladder bucket of a vintage Chicago Fire Department truck, was a team of men in heavy turnout gear.
And driving the truck, parked squarely on Vanessa's ruined rose garden, was the man who had rented the truck to Joe for his trip.
Luca didn't wait. He shoved the heavy oak wardrobe aside and kicked the bathroom door open.
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Inside, Uncle Joe was sitting on the floor, holding his coat tightly over little Leo to protect him from the smoke.
“Anthony,” Joe coughed, looking up with a weary smile. “I told you... I wouldn't miss your wedding for anything.”
