Chapter 5 - THE HEAVY BRACELET
The numbers on the small piece of parchment paper were written in neat, precise rows.
I stepped closer, peering over Marco’s arm. They weren’t bank accounts or coordinates. They were dates, followed by long, alphanumeric codes.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice hushed in the quiet study.
Marco’s eyes scanned the list rapidly, his jaw tightening with every line he read.
“It’s an extortion ledger,” Marco said, a dark fury radiating from his rigid posture. “Thomas Voss didn’t just kill people, Emma. He collected their secrets. He gathered blackmail on federal judges, politicians, rival syndicate bosses. He used it to manipulate the entire city from the shadows.”
“And Elena stole it,” I realized, the pieces finally locking into a horrific, dangerous picture. “She didn’t just want to run away. She wanted to buy her freedom.”
“If she handed this over to the Commission,” Marco agreed softly, “Thomas Voss would have been executed by his own allies within hours. He had to kill her to stop it from getting out.”
“But he didn’t find the ledger,” I said, looking at the heavy silver bracelet. “Because my father hid it inside my mother’s jewelry and gave it back to Elena before she died.”
“And Elena gave it to Daniel,” Marco finished, looking at his son with a fierce, protective pride. “She hid the most dangerous piece of paper in Chicago in the toy box of a two-year-old boy.”
It was brilliant. And incredibly tragic.
Suddenly, the heavy oak door of the study violently shook.
Someone was pounding on it from the hallway.
“Boss!” a gruff, panicked voice shouted through the wood. It was Carlo, Marco’s head of security.
Marco instantly shoved the parchment ledger into his inner suit pocket and gripped his pistol.
“Speak,” Marco commanded loudly.
“We have a breach at the front gate,” Carlo yelled through the door. “Two SUVs just rammed the barricade. They’re heavily armed. It’s Voss loyalists. They’re demanding we send the girl out, or they start burning the house down.”
My blood turned to ice.
“Adriana,” I whispered. “She didn’t wait until midnight. She came back for me.”
Marco looked at me, his expression entirely devoid of fear. It was pure, lethal calculation.
“She didn’t come back for you,” Marco corrected calmly. “She came back because she realized you didn’t have the key. She wants to trap me here so she can force a trade.”
Marco walked over to the door and unlocked it. Carlo stood in the hallway, an assault rifle strapped across his chest, sweat beading on his forehead.
“How many men outside?” Marco asked, completely unfazed.
“At least fifteen, Boss. We have ten men on the inside. We can hold them off, but if they start throwing incendiaries, the house goes up.”
“Let them try,” Marco said. “Move the men to the ground floor windows. Nobody gets past the foyer. Shoot to kill.”
“Yes, sir.” Carlo turned and sprinted down the hallway.
Marco shut the door again and turned to me.
“We can’t stay in this room,” Marco said, walking over to his desk. He opened a hidden panel beneath the wood and pulled out a tactical shotgun, racking a shell into the chamber with a terrifying, metallic clack. “If they start a fire, the smoke will trap us up here.”
“Where do we go?” I panicked, pulling Daniel tightly against my side. The little boy was trembling, his eyes wide with fear.
“The panic room in the basement,” Marco said. “It has a reinforced steel door and a separate ventilation system. But we have to make it across the second-floor landing to get to the service elevator.”
Gunfire suddenly erupted from downstairs.
The sound was deafening, echoing up the grand staircase. Glass shattered. Men shouted. The war had officially reached the gold coast.
“Stay exactly behind me,” Marco ordered, his voice brokering absolutely no argument. “Do not stop moving. If I tell you to run, you grab Daniel and run. Do you understand?”
I nodded frantically, gripping Daniel’s hand so tight my knuckles ached.
Marco opened the study door. The hallway was filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder and smoke.
We moved quickly and silently down the corridor. Marco led the way, his shotgun raised, clearing every shadow before we stepped into it. I kept Daniel tucked between me and the wall, using my body as a shield.
We reached the second-floor landing overlooking the grand foyer.
The scene below was pure chaos.
The massive front doors had been blown off their hinges. Marco’s men were taking cover behind marble pillars and heavy oak furniture, exchanging furious gunfire with heavily armed men in black tactical gear pushing through the entrance.
“Go,” Marco yelled over the deafening noise, shoving me gently toward the hallway that led to the service elevator.
I grabbed Daniel and ran.
We made it five steps before a voice echoed over the gunfire.
“Marco!”
It was a woman’s voice. Shrill and filled with venom.
I stopped and looked over the mahogany railing.
Adriana was standing in the center of the shattered doorway, flanked by two massive enforcers holding ballistic shields. She wasn’t wearing her red evening gown anymore. She was wearing a dark trench coat, holding a sleek, suppressed pistol in her hand.
But it was what her other hand was holding that made my heart completely stop.
She was gripping the collar of an older man. He was battered, bleeding from a cut on his forehead, his hands zip-tied behind his back.
It was Arthur Bennett.
My father.
He wasn’t dead.
“Dad!” I screamed, leaning over the railing before I could stop myself.
My father looked up, his bruised face twisting in agony when he saw me. “Emma! Run!”
Marco grabbed my shoulder, yanking me back from the railing, but it was too late. Adriana had seen us.
“I thought the stroke story was a nice touch to keep the syndicate off his back,” Adriana yelled up at Marco, a cruel, victorious smile on her face. “But my father kept him locked in a basement in Cicero for the last three years, just in case we ever needed leverage.”
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She pressed the barrel of her pistol directly against my father’s temple.
“Drop the gun, Marco,” Adriana commanded. “Bring me the ledger, and the girl gets her daddy back. Refuse, and I paint your marble floor with his brains.”
