Chapter 4 - THE MONTREAL TICKET
The rain beat against the windshield like a thousand tiny drums, but inside the car, the silence was deafening.
I stared at the name printed on the train ticket. Leo Moretti. One-way to Montreal. Departure: 1:00 AM tonight.
My mind spun, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of my life. Adrian had told Vanessa he was sending Leo back to a biological family. He had told his mother he was sending Leo to a boarding school. But this ticket—hidden inside a rosary in a locker key coat—told a completely different story. Montreal wasn’t a school. It was the headquarters of the rival Falco family, the only syndicate powerful enough to shelter someone from Bellini.
Why would Adrian send our eight-year-old son to the Falcos?
Unless Leo wasn’t just an adopted child.
I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. Three years ago, my sister Elena had died in a tragic hit-and-run. Adrian had stepped in immediately, handling the police, the funeral, and the adoption papers for Leo. I had been too drowned in grief to ask questions. I just wanted my nephew safe.
But what if Elena’s death wasn’t an accident?
I threw the car into drive, my tires squealing against the wet pavement. I had less than an hour to get to the train station, find locker 402, and figure out what my husband was truly hiding before I went to the shipyard.
Downtown Chicago was a ghost town in the storm. I parked illegally outside the crumbling facade of the central station. I pulled Adrian’s heavy coat around my shoulders, the oversized fabric swallowing me, and ran inside.
The station was dimly lit, smelling of stale coffee and damp floorboards. I found the bank of lockers near the old ticketing booths. 399… 400… 401… 402.
My hand trembled as I inserted the brass key. It turned with a heavy click.
I pulled the locker open.
Inside sat a battered leather briefcase. No ledgers. No stacks of money. Just the briefcase and a single, sealed manila envelope resting on top.
I pulled the envelope out first. My name was written on it in Adrian’s sharp, slanted handwriting. For Claire.
I tore it open. Inside was a photograph and a birth certificate.
The photograph was old, its edges frayed. It showed my sister, Elena, standing in front of a familiar hospital. But she wasn’t alone. Standing next to her, looking terrified, was Vanessa’s father—Marcus Bellini. He had his arm around her waist. Elena was heavily pregnant.
I dropped the photo, my stomach violently dropping.
I unfolded the birth certificate. Child: Leo Bellini. Mother: Elena Moretti. Father: Marcus Bellini.
The air in my lungs vanished. Leo wasn’t just my nephew. He was the illegitimate son of the most dangerous mafia boss in Chicago. Adrian hadn’t adopted Leo out of the goodness of his heart. He had taken him as a hostage. An insurance policy against the Bellini family.
And tonight, Adrian wasn’t planning to give Bellini the ledgers. He was planning to trade Leo to the Falcos for safe passage out of the country, leaving me to take the fall for everything.
“You’re a smart woman, Claire. Smarter than my brother ever gave you credit for.”
I spun around.
Standing in the shadows of the station was a man in a dark trench coat. Water dripped from the brim of his hat. He held a silenced pistol, pointed directly at my chest.
“Who are you?” I asked, instinctively pulling the briefcase behind me.
The man stepped into the flickering overhead light. He had the same sharp jawline and cold eyes as Vanessa.
“I’m the man who called you from Rosa’s house,” he said smoothly. “Dante Bellini. Vanessa’s older brother. And Leo’s uncle.”
He held out his hand. “Give me the briefcase, Claire. And tell me where Adrian hid my brother.”
I stared at him, my mind catching on his last word. Brother?
“Leo is an eight-year-old boy,” I said, my voice shaking. “He’s your nephew.”
Dante lowered the gun a fraction, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “Nephew? Claire, what are you talking about? Leo is twenty-four years old. He’s my younger brother. And Adrian kidnapped him three days ago.”
I looked down at the birth certificate in my hand. Then at Dante.
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Answer one, open two.
If Dante’s brother was Leo… then who was the eight-year-old boy sleeping in my house for the last three years?
