Chapter 3 - THE POCKET WATCH
I stared at the silver pocket watch resting on the Persian rug.
It was beautifully crafted, etched with intricate vines, but the casing was deeply scratched, and the glass face was cracked straight down the middle.
Matteo didn’t touch it. He just stared at it like it was a venomous snake.
“Dad?” Ava whispered against my shoulder, trembling violently. “Whose is that?”
Matteo finally looked away from the watch. His eyes met mine in the darkness. There was no time for explanations, but the absolute dread on his face told me everything I needed to know. The man attacking his home wasn’t a rival boss.
It was blood.
“Dominic,” Matteo said, the name sounding like a curse.
I had heard whispers about Dominic DeLuca in the kitchens. Matteo’s younger brother. The wild one. The one who had been exiled to Italy five years ago after crossing a line even the family couldn’t forgive. He was never supposed to return to Chicago.
If Dominic was here, he wasn’t here to negotiate.
“Dante!” Matteo called out sharply over the screams of his guests.
Dante appeared from the shadows, his weapon drawn. “The front hall is compromised. There are at least ten heavily armed men. They’re locking the guests in the foyer, but they’re moving toward the back of the house.”
“They’re looking for Ava,” Matteo said, his voice hard. He turned to me. “Sophie.”
I flinched.
“You know the service corridors better than anyone,” Matteo said. “The hidden passages the staff uses. Can you get us to the basement?”
My mind raced. The main stairs were exposed. The elevators were dead without power.
“The laundry chute in the east wing,” I said, my voice shaking. “It drops straight into the sub-basement. But we have to cross the main kitchen to get there.”
“Then we cross the kitchen,” Matteo said.
He reached under his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a heavy, matte-black handgun.
Alessandra crawled out from under the opposite side of the table. Her red dress was torn, her knees scraped. She looked wildly at Matteo.
“Take me with you,” she begged.
Matteo looked at the woman who had nearly drugged him, the woman who had kept a terrifying secret that led an army to his door.
“Stay with the guests, Alessandra,” Matteo said coldly. “They won’t hurt you. You’ve outlived your usefulness to them.”
“Matteo, please!”
He didn’t listen. He grabbed Ava’s hand, pulling her up. “Keep your head down. Don’t let go of my hand.”
He looked at me. “Lead the way, Sophie.”
I swallowed my terror, nodded, and pushed through the heavy swinging doors into the service corridor.
It was pitch black. The smell of roasted meats and the rich, dark aroma of the chocolate desserts still hung heavily in the air, a sickening contrast to the smell of gunpowder filtering in from the hallway.
We moved fast. My soft-soled maid’s shoes made no sound on the tiles.
We reached the main kitchen.
The massive stainless-steel room was illuminated only by the ambient glow of the city streetlights outside the high windows.
I expected it to be empty.
It wasn't.
I stopped abruptly, throwing my hand back to stop Matteo and Ava.
On the floor, near the massive commercial ovens, was the pastry chef.
He was bound tightly with thick plastic zip-ties, a towel shoved into his mouth. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead, his eyes wide with panic as he saw us.
“Help him,” Ava whispered.
I ran forward, pulling a small paring knife from my apron pocket—a habit from my bakery days when I always needed to cut twine or open flour sacks.
I quickly sliced through the zip-ties on his wrists.
The chef pulled the gag from his mouth, gasping for air.
“They were already inside,” the chef wheezed, looking at Matteo. “Before the gates blew. They were already in the house, boss.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened. “How?”
“I don’t know. I was prepping the dessert service, and a man just walked out of the pantry. He hit me from behind.”
Matteo scanned the dark kitchen.
“If they were already inside, the explosion at the gate wasn’t an entry tactic,” Matteo realized, his voice dropping. “It was a diversion.”
He turned toward the back exit of the kitchen.
Draped casually over one of the prep tables was a heavy, dark wool winter coat.
It was soaking wet, smelling of rain and the bitter chill of the Chicago night.
Matteo walked over to it. He touched the fabric.
“It’s freezing,” Matteo murmured. “Whoever wore this was waiting outside in the rain for a long time before they came in.”
My blood ran cold.
“Mr. DeLuca,” I whispered.
If the attacker had come from outside and used the kitchen entrance, they hadn’t gone toward the dining room. They had stayed hidden in the back of the house.
Right where we were standing.
Before Matteo could process my warning, the heavy door of the walk-in refrigerator swung open with a terrifying creak.
A figure stepped out of the freezing darkness.
He was tall, built just like Matteo, but his face was younger, sharper, and twisted with a cruel, mocking smile. He held a suppressed pistol casually at his side.
Dominic DeLuca.
“You always did have terrible security, brother,” Dominic said, his voice smooth and cold.
Matteo immediately raised his weapon, shielding Ava behind him. I stepped back, pushing Ava further into the shadows of the ovens.
“You’re a dead man, Dominic,” Matteo stated, his voice completely devoid of fear.
Dominic laughed. It was a hollow, ugly sound.
“Maybe,” Dominic agreed, taking a step forward. “But I won’t be the only one.”
Dominic didn’t raise his gun at Matteo.
He reached behind him into the dark refrigerator and yanked someone out into the kitchen.
It was Alessandra.
She screamed, struggling wildly as Dominic locked his arm around her throat, pressing the barrel of his gun directly against her temple.
“I found a stray dog wandering the hallways,” Dominic smiled, looking at Matteo. “She was trying to sneak out the back door. But you and I both know she belongs to me.”
Matteo’s eyes narrowed.
Dominic looked at me, taking in my black dress and white apron.
“And who is this?” Dominic asked, amused. “The help? You’re bringing the maid to a gunfight, Matteo? You really have lost your edge.”
“Let Alessandra go,” Matteo demanded.
“Oh, I will,” Dominic said. “Right after you give me the ledger.”
Matteo didn’t blink. “I don’t have it.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Dominic roared, dropping his calm facade instantly. “I know the old man hid it before he died! And I know you found it!”
“The ledger is gone, Dominic. It burned.”
“Liar.” Dominic pressed the gun harder against Alessandra’s head. She whimpered, tears streaking her ruined makeup. “You have sixty seconds to tell me where it is, or I blow her brains out all over your nice clean kitchen.”
Matteo’s gun didn’t waver. But he didn’t shoot.
I stared at Dominic. At the man holding Alessandra hostage.
And that’s when I saw it.
Dangling from Dominic’s left wrist, partially hidden by his shirt cuff, was a heavy gold chain. It was a woman’s necklace, wrapped twice around his wrist like a makeshift bracelet.
But it wasn’t just any necklace.
It had a distinct, teardrop-shaped emerald pendant.
I had seen that necklace before.
Every day, when I dusted the grand piano in the formal living room, I carefully wiped the glass of a framed photograph sitting on top. It was a picture of Matteo’s late wife, Elena.
And in that photo, Elena was wearing that exact emerald necklace.
“Mr. DeLuca,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
Matteo didn’t look at me, keeping his eyes on Dominic.
“Look at his wrist,” I breathed.
Matteo’s eyes flicked down.
He saw the emerald.
The reaction was instantaneous.
The cool, calculated mafia boss completely vanished.
A raw, devastating grief and a terrifying rage exploded across Matteo’s face.
“Where did you get that?” Matteo’s voice shook, low and dangerous.
May you like
Dominic smiled, holding up his wrist so the emerald caught the moonlight.
“Elena dropped it,” Dominic said cruelly. “Right before her car went off the bridge.”
