Chapter 5 - THE FAMILY HEIRLOOM
The line went dead.
I dropped the phone. It shattered on the hardwood floor, but I didn’t care.
My mother. She couldn’t walk. She couldn’t fight back. She was in the hands of monsters.
“I don’t have it,” I panicked, gripping my hair. “Mr. Moretti, I don’t know what ledger she’s talking about! My father died when I was sixteen. He didn’t leave me mafia documents!”
Luca grabbed my shoulders. His grip was firm, grounding me in the spiraling terror.
“Breathe, Emma.”
“They’re going to kill her,” I sobbed.
“They won’t. Because we are going to find it.” Luca looked directly into my eyes. “Think. Your father knew he was in danger. He wouldn’t leave a financial ledger sitting in a desk. Did he give you anything before he died? A gift? Something you were told never to lose?”
My mind raced.
Birthdays. Holidays.
Then, the memory surfaced. A week before his fatal heart attack.
“A music box,” I whispered.
Luca let go of my shoulders. “Where is it?”
“My apartment. It’s a cheap wooden music box. He told me it was a family heirloom and that I should only open it if I ever hit rock bottom.”
“Let’s go.”
We didn’t take the front door. Luca led me down the back fire escape, avoiding the security detail Vanessa had likely compromised.
We stole a groundskeeper’s truck and sped toward my run-down apartment on the south side.
We kicked my front door open.
The apartment had been tossed. Furniture was overturned. Cushions were slashed. Vanessa’s men had already been here.
“No, no, no,” I cried, rushing to my small bedroom.
The closet was ripped apart. But they hadn’t looked under the loose floorboard beneath my bed.
I pried the wood up.
The small, polished wooden music box was still there.
I pulled it out, my hands shaking so badly I dropped it onto the mattress.
“Open it,” Luca urged, standing guard at the bedroom door.
I lifted the lid. The tinkling sound of Swan Lake filled the quiet room. It was empty. Just red velvet lining.
I looked at Luca in despair.
He walked over, took his heavy pocket knife, and jammed it beneath the velvet lining, prying the false bottom open.
Hidden beneath the fabric was a heavy, brass safety deposit key.
And a small slip of paper with a four-digit code.
“Answer One, Open Two,” I muttered. We had the key. But the bank was downtown, and it was 11:15 PM.
“We’ll never get inside,” I said. “The bank is closed.”
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Luca grabbed the key. His eyes were darker than I had ever seen them.
“I own the man who owns the bank,” Luca said coldly. “We’re going in.”
