Chapter 3 - THE EMPTY BENCH
The photograph burned into my retinas.
Arthur Bellini. The man who had just eaten lobster at Luca’s table. The man who was going to become Luca’s father-in-law. He was the one who had blackmailed Rosa, and he was the one who had orchestrated her murder.
“He killed her,” I breathed, pressing a hand to my mouth. “He killed your sister to protect his own secrets, and then he forced an alliance with you to control your empire.”
Luca didn’t answer. His silence was far more terrifying than any scream. His dark eyes were fixed on the photograph, the grief and rage warring perfectly on his stoic face.
“Marco, faster,” Luca growled to the driver.
The SUV tore through the wet Chicago streets, tires screaming as we took a hard corner toward Union Station. The massive, historic train terminal loomed ahead, its glowing clock face shining in the night sky.
“My mother is the only other person who knows what’s in this journal,” Luca said quietly, slipping the book into his jacket pocket. “Arthur won’t let her get on a bus. He can’t risk her going to the Commission or the police with this information. He’ll send his men to intercept her.”
My stomach plummeted. “We have to find her first.”
Marco slammed the SUV into park in front of the station’s grand columns before it had even fully stopped.
Luca threw his door open and sprinted up the massive stone steps. I ran right behind him, ignoring the strange looks from commuters as a mob boss and a housekeeper in a uniform tore through the station doors.
The Great Hall was cavernous, echoing with the sounds of rolling suitcases and train announcements.
“Split up,” Luca ordered, his eyes frantically scanning the crowds. “Check the ticket counters and the waiting areas. If you see anyone affiliated with Bellini, scream.”
I nodded, peeling off toward the north concourse while Luca headed south.
I ran through the throngs of people, desperately looking for a faded blue cardigan and a battered little suitcase. My heart hammered in my ears. I checked the benches, the coffee shops, the restrooms. Nothing.
I reached the Greyhound bus terminal attached to the station. It was crowded, smelling of diesel exhaust and stale pretzels.
I scanned the rows of plastic chairs.
My breath caught.
Sitting on a bench near Gate 4 was a battered brown suitcase.
I sprinted toward it. It was definitely hers. I recognized the frayed handle from when she had rested it by the service elevator.
But the seat next to it was empty.
“Mrs. Moretti!” I called out, spinning around, looking frantically through the crowd.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I turned. An elderly man with a cane was sitting a few seats away, looking at me.
“Are you looking for the nice Italian lady?” he asked.
“Yes! Did you see where she went?” I begged, dropping to my knees beside his chair.
“She was sitting here crying for about twenty minutes,” the man said softly. “Then two men in dark suits walked up to her. They said her son had sent them to pick her up. She looked so relieved.”
Ice flooded my veins. “How long ago did they leave?”
“Just a few minutes,” the man pointed toward the side exit leading to the Canal Street taxi stand. “They helped her with her coat, but they left her bag.”
“Thank you!” I yelled, scrambling to my feet.
I pulled my phone from my apron pocket and dialed Luca’s number as I sprinted toward the side exit.
“I found her bag!” I gasped as Luca answered. “Gate 4! Two men in suits took her toward Canal Street!”
“I’m on my way,” Luca growled, the line clicking dead.
I hit the heavy glass doors and burst out into the freezing Chicago night. The Canal Street exit was dimly lit, lined with idling taxis and delivery trucks.
I spotted them immediately.
Two massive men in dark overcoats were guiding a frail, struggling woman toward a black, unmarked sedan at the end of the curb.
It was Teresa Moretti.
“Let me go!” she cried, trying to pull her arm away. “You said Luca sent you! Why are you hurting me?”
“Shut up, old lady,” the taller man hissed, shoving her roughly against the back door of the sedan.
I didn’t think. The adrenaline overrode every ounce of common sense I possessed.
“Hey!” I screamed, sprinting down the sidewalk.
The two men whipped their heads around. They saw a twenty-eight-year-old housekeeper running at them holding nothing but a cell phone.
The taller man sneered, reaching inside his coat for a weapon.
Before he could draw, a deafening roar echoed down the street.
Luca’s black SUV careened around the corner, jumping the curb and smashing violently into the front quarter panel of the unmarked sedan. The impact sent a shower of sparks and shattered glass across the sidewalk.
The two hitmen stumbled backward in shock.
Luca kicked his door open before the SUV even stopped moving. He didn’t shout. He didn’t hesitate.
He drew his suppressed handgun and fired two shots in rapid succession. Pffft. Pffft.
The first hitman dropped instantly, clutching a shattered kneecap. The second man dove behind the trunk of the sedan, returning fire blindly.
I dove behind a concrete trash can, covering my ears as bullets sparked off the pavement.
“Mom! Get down!” Luca roared, advancing steadily toward the sedan, his weapon raised, completely ignoring the gunfire aimed at him.
Teresa scrambled under the bumper of the ruined car, sobbing in terror.
The second hitman peaked out to take another shot at Luca.
It was a fatal mistake.
Luca fired once. The man slumped against the trunk, sliding to the pavement, dead before he hit the ground.
Silence fell over the street, broken only by the hiss of a ruptured radiator.
Luca holstered his weapon and rushed to his mother, dropping to his knees and pulling her out from under the car.
“I’ve got you, Mom. I’ve got you,” Luca choked out, wrapping his strong arms around her frail body, burying his face in her silver hair.
“Luca, my boy,” Teresa wept, clinging to his neck. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought the journal. I ruined everything.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Luca promised fiercely, kissing her forehead. “You gave me the truth.”
I stood up slowly from behind the trash can, my knees shaking uncontrollably. I walked over to them, feeling completely out of place in the middle of a mafia shootout.
Luca looked up at me. His eyes were wide with a profound, terrifying vulnerability.
“Are you hurt, Emma?” he asked, his voice rough.
“No, sir,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around myself to stop the shivering.
“Good,” Luca nodded, standing up and helping his mother to her feet. “Marco, get her in the SUV. We’re going to the safe house.”
“What about the cops?” Marco asked, gesturing to the bodies on the sidewalk. “Someone definitely heard the crash.”
“Let Arthur’s men clean up their own mess,” Luca said coldly.
We piled into the battered SUV and tore away from Union Station, leaving the smoking wreckage behind.
The drive to the safe house was tense and silent. Teresa held my hand in the backseat, squeezing it gratefully. She was shaken, but she was alive.
We arrived at a heavily fortified, unmarked brownstone in the Gold Coast. Marco ushered us inside, locking the reinforced steel doors behind us.
Luca immediately went to the kitchen and poured his mother a glass of water. He sat her down at the large wooden table.
“Mom, listen to me carefully,” Luca said, taking the faded leather journal from his pocket and setting it on the table. “I know about Arthur. I know he blackmailed Rosa. But why did she have a picture of him?”
Teresa took a shaky sip of water. She looked at the journal, tears welling in her eyes again.
“Rosa wasn’t just paying him off, Luca,” Teresa whispered. “She was investigating him. She was trying to find out where Arthur was hiding the money he stole from your father’s accounts five years ago.”
Luca frowned. “My father’s accounts? I thought Arthur and my father were partners until the day my father died of a heart attack.”
Teresa shook her head slowly.
“They weren’t partners at the end, Luca,” she said softly. “Arthur was bleeding our family dry. Rosa found out. She took the photograph of Arthur meeting with the bank manager who helped him steal the money.”
Luca stared at his mother, the betrayal sinking deeper into his soul. “Arthur killed Rosa because she found the stolen money.”
“Yes,” Teresa nodded, weeping quietly.
Luca stood up, his jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line. He looked at Marco.
“Mobilize every man we have,” Luca ordered quietly. “We’re not waiting for Arthur to strike first. We’re going to the Bellini estate tonight. We end this.”
“Mr. Moretti, wait,” I said, stepping forward.
Luca stopped, turning to look at me with a rare patience.
“What is it, Emma?”
I looked down at the journal on the table. I hadn’t meant to snoop, but when Vanessa had handed it to him in the dining room, I had seen something tucked inside the back cover.
I reached out and opened the journal to the very last page.
Behind the photograph of Arthur Bellini, slipped into a small, hidden slit in the leather binding, was a heavy, ornate brass key.
“Rosa didn’t just take a photograph,” I said quietly, pulling the key out and setting it on the table.
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Luca stared at the key. His eyes widened in recognition.
“That’s the key to my father’s private safety deposit box at the downtown bank,” Luca whispered, his voice trembling with a sudden, horrifying realization. “If Rosa had this key when she died… then who opened the box and emptied it three days after my father’s funeral?”
