Chapter 7 - THE TORN TICKET
The wail of fire engines echoed in the distance, growing louder.
Luca’s security detail swarmed the estate grounds, their flashlights cutting through the thick smoke rolling off the lake. Daniel, the head of security, ran up to us, out of breath.
“Boss, we have Vanessa and the traitor secured in the basement. The fire is contained. But there's no sign of Michael, Rebecca, or the kid.”
Luca stood up, wiping the soot from his face. The bloody pocket watch was tightly clenched in his fist.
“Pull the camera footage from the eastern highway,” Luca ordered. “Look for heavy tire tracks leaving the old service road. Rossi took them.”
Daniel nodded and sprinted away.
Luca turned toward the main house. He was moving with absolute purpose.
“Go to the kitchen, Hannah. Have Mrs. Carter look at your knee.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said, stubbornly following him.
He stopped and looked at me. “Rossi is a butcher. Where I’m going, I can't protect you.”
“You don't know where you’re going,” I argued, pushing through the pain. “But I do.”
Luca frowned. “What do you mean?”
“When I dropped the box on the service stairs today, I saw the papers inside the envelope Michael gave Vanessa. Before she pushed me, I saw a printed blueprint.”
Luca stepped closer. “A blueprint of what?”
“It was stamped with the Bellini family logo,” I explained rapidly. “It was an abandoned shipping yard. Pier 42, down by the industrial canal. It had a torn parking ticket stapled to it, dated this morning. That’s where Rossi is operating. Vanessa must have been leasing it to him.”
Luca’s eyes widened slightly.
The maid who was supposed to be invisible had just given him the only map to his family.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of Luca’s armored SUV. My left leg was elevated on the dashboard, packed with ice from the kitchen. Luca drove, his face a mask of terrifying concentration.
We tore through the empty midnight streets of Chicago, heading toward the industrial district.
The SUV screeched to a halt half a block from Pier 42.
The shipping yard was massive, surrounded by rusted chain-link fences and towering stacks of metal cargo containers. It was eerily quiet.
Luca pulled a tactical rifle from the back seat. He looked at me.
“Lock the doors. Stay down.”
I nodded.
He melted into the shadows of the containers.
I sat in the dark for five agonizing minutes. Then, I couldn't take it anymore. I cracked the window, listening intently.
A muffled shout came from the center of the yard.
I pushed open the heavy car door, grabbed a heavy metal flashlight from the glove box, and limped into the yard, keeping myself pressed against the cold steel of the containers.
I rounded a corner and stopped dead.
In the center of a clearing illuminated by harsh halogen work lights, a horrifying scene unfolded.
Michael Dawson was tied to a wooden chair. He was beaten severely, his face covered in blood, breathing heavily.
Standing in front of him was Salvatore Rossi. The jagged red scar across his face looked even more grotesque under the bright lights.
Four armed men flanked Rossi.
And standing twenty feet away, completely exposed, was Luca. His rifle was lowered, aimed directly at Rossi’s chest.
“Let them go, Sal,” Luca commanded, his voice echoing off the metal containers.
Rossi laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound.
“You’re outgunned, Moretti. And you’re out of time.”
“Where is my sister?” Luca demanded.
Rossi smiled, revealing gold teeth.
He snapped his fingers.
One of the armed men stepped back to a nearby cargo container and yanked the heavy metal doors open.
My heart stopped.
Stepping out of the dark container was little Lily, wearing her yellow dress, shivering uncontrollably in the cold night air.
May you like
Rossi grabbed the little girl by the shoulder and pulled her against his legs. He drew a heavy silver revolver and pressed the barrel directly against the top of her head.
“Drop the rifle, Luca,” Rossi sneered. “Or I paint this yard with your bloodline.”
