Chapter 5 - THE LAWYER'S GAMBIT
The cold steel of the suppressed pistol was hidden entirely by the interrogation table, but its threat radiated through my entire body.
Arthur Bellini’s lawyer.
I stared at the man sitting across from me, my mind racing. Luca had given me the name Marcus Vance. He said he was on the payroll. Had Arthur bought him out? Or had Arthur intercepted the call and sent an imposter?
"You're making a mistake," I whispered, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the violent trembling in my hands. "I'm in police custody. If you shoot me in an interrogation room, you’ll never make it out of this building."
"I won't have to shoot you," the lawyer smiled, a chilling, practiced expression. "You're a distressed hostage, Emma. Traumatized by your ordeal with Luca Moretti. It would be a tragedy if you suffered a sudden, fatal heart attack from the stress. I have a syringe of untraceable potassium chloride in my briefcase. The medical examiner will rule it natural causes."
My stomach plummeted. He wasn't bluffing. This man was a professional cleaner.
"Where is the journal, Emma?" he repeated, his tone conversational, as if asking for the time. "Arthur wants the photograph of him meeting with the bank manager destroyed before the FBI finds it."
"I don't know," I lied, gripping the edge of the metal table. "Luca took it with him."
"Don't lie to me," the lawyer sighed, tapping the barrel of the gun against my knee under the table. "Luca walked into the FBI ambush empty-handed. My men tossed his car. He left it with Teresa, didn't he? Or did he leave it with you?"
He leaned closer, his cologne smelling sharply of cedar and expensive gin.
"Tell me where it is, and I walk out of here. You live to go back to your quiet, pathetic life cleaning toilets. Refuse, and your heart stops in three minutes."
I closed my eyes, desperately trying to think. Luca had left the journal on the kitchen table at the safe house when the SWAT team breached. The police must have logged it into evidence. But if Arthur’s lawyer was here threatening me, it meant the corrupt cops on Arthur's payroll hadn't found it during the raid.
Teresa.
Teresa must have grabbed it before she hid.
I couldn't tell him that. If Arthur knew Teresa had it, he would hunt the elderly woman down and slaughter her.
"I... I hid it," I stammered, opening my eyes, feigning a panic attack perfectly because the terror was very real. "I hid it in the safe house before the police came in!"
The lawyer frowned. "Where?"
"In the air vent in the master bedroom," I lied smoothly. "Behind the grate. The police didn't search the ductwork."
He stared at me, analyzing my expression for deception. I forced myself to cry, letting a tear slip down my cheek.
"Please," I sobbed. "Just let me go."
The lawyer held my gaze for a long, agonizing second. Then, slowly, he lowered the pistol and slipped it back into his briefcase.
"If you're lying, Emma, I will find you," he promised softly. "And it won't be a quiet heart attack next time."
He stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and walked out of the interrogation room, the heavy metal door clicking shut behind him.
I collapsed over the table, gasping for air, my entire body shaking uncontrollably. I had bought Teresa some time, but it wouldn't take Arthur's men long to tear that safe house apart and realize the journal wasn't there.
I needed to get out of this precinct. I needed to find Luca.
Ten minutes later, a different police officer opened the door. He wasn't aggressive. He looked exhausted.
"Emma Carter?" the officer asked. "You're free to go."
I blinked in shock. "Free? But I was arrested..."
"Your lawyer posted bail," the officer grunted, handing me a manila envelope with my personal belongings. "Mr. Vance works fast. Don't leave the city."
I took the envelope numbly. Arthur's lawyer hadn't just threatened me; he had legally bailed me out to ensure I wasn't under police protection when his men realized I lied. I was being released into the wild as a sitting duck.
I walked out of the precinct into the freezing, early morning Chicago air. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a pale, gray light over the city.
I pulled my phone from the envelope and frantically dialed Luca's number. It went straight to voicemail. The lawyer had told the truth about that part—Luca was in federal custody.
I stood on the sidewalk, completely alone, freezing in my maid's uniform, wondering where a seventy-eight-year-old woman would hide a mafia journal.
She didn't run, I realized suddenly. Teresa wouldn't run. She would go to the only place she felt safe.
I flagged down a passing taxi.
"Where to, miss?" the driver asked, eyeing my disheveled uniform in the rearview mirror.
"The Moretti Estate," I said firmly. "Gold Coast."
The massive wrought-iron gates of the mansion were wide open when we arrived. The police had removed the crime scene tape, leaving the property eerily quiet and abandoned.
I paid the driver with the last twenty dollars in my purse and walked up the long driveway. The front doors were shattered from the shootout earlier that night, the cold wind blowing through the grand foyer.
I slipped inside. The house smelled of gunpowder and stale champagne. The engagement dinner felt like it had happened a lifetime ago.
"Mrs. Moretti?" I called out softly, stepping over overturned marble tables and shattered crystal.
No answer.
I crept toward the kitchen. It was empty. The chipped white bowl of chicken soup still sat on the counter, cold and forgotten.
I walked toward the back service stairs, the same stairs Evelyn and I used every day.
I found Teresa sitting on the bottom step, wrapped in an old wool blanket. She looked incredibly frail, her silver hair messy, staring blankly at the floor.
"Mrs. Moretti," I breathed, rushing over and dropping to my knees beside her.
Teresa looked up, her eyes red and swollen from crying.
"Emma," she whispered, her hands shaking as she reached out to touch my face. "You came back."
"Are you okay? Did anyone hurt you?" I asked frantically.
"No, sweetheart. When the police raided the safe house, Marco shoved me out the back door," Teresa explained weakly. "I walked to a gas station and called a cab. I didn't know where else to go."
"Do you have the journal?" I asked, lowering my voice despite the empty house.
Teresa nodded, pulling the faded leather notebook from beneath the folds of the wool blanket.
"I couldn't leave it," she wept. "It’s the only proof we have that Arthur murdered my Rosa."
"Arthur's men are looking for it right now," I warned, taking the journal carefully. "And Luca is in federal custody. Arthur set him up. We have to get this to the FBI before Arthur gets to us."
"We can't," a cold, familiar voice echoed from the top of the stairs.
I whipped my head around, jumping to my feet, shielding Teresa behind me.
Standing on the landing, looking immaculate in a tailored trench coat despite the chaos of the night, was Vanessa Bellini.
And she was holding a sleek, silver handgun.
"You really are a persistent little maid, aren't you?" Vanessa sneered, walking slowly down the stairs. "My father told me his lawyer bailed you out. I knew you'd come scurrying back here to play hero."
"Vanessa, stop," I said, holding my hands up. "The police have already been here. If you shoot us, they’ll hear it."
"The police are busy processing your boss for federal racketeering," Vanessa smiled, a cruel, venomous expression. "I have plenty of time to clean up this mess."
She pointed the gun directly at my chest.
"Give me the journal, Emma. Or you die right here."
I gripped the leather book tightly. I knew she wouldn't let us live, regardless of whether I handed it over. She couldn't leave witnesses.
"You're not going to shoot me," I bluffed, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Try me," Vanessa snapped, her finger tightening on the trigger.
Before I could brace for the impact, a massive, deafening roar shattered the silence of the mansion.
It wasn't a gunshot.
It was the sound of a heavy diesel engine tearing through the shattered front doors of the grand foyer.
A massive, armored black SUV smashed into the foyer, crushing the remnants of the marble tables, tires screeching against the polished floor.
Vanessa screamed in shock, spinning around and firing wildly at the vehicle.
The driver's door kicked open.
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Stepping out of the smoking SUV, wearing an FBI tactical vest over his torn suit, holding a massive assault rifle, was Luca Moretti.
"You’re trespassing, Vanessa," Luca roared, his voice echoing like thunder through the ruined mansion. "And I want my ring back."
