Chapter 5 - THE BOY ON THE PLATFORM
The revolver in Vanessa’s hand shook, but her eyes were desperate.
“Your brother?” Luca repeated, stepping slowly in front of me to shield me from the gun.
Vanessa let out a ragged sob.
“My mother didn't die in a car accident, Luca. Enzo pushed her down the stairs when he found out she was pregnant with Michael’s child.”
The room felt entirely devoid of air.
“But the baby survived,” Vanessa cried. “The doctors saved him. Enzo was going to drown him in the bathtub. I was nine years old. I begged him not to. I promised I would never tell.”
Answer one. Open two.
Luca had a half-brother.
“Where is he?” Luca demanded.
Vanessa held up the blue train ticket.
“Enzo sent him away. To an orphanage in Boston. He pays for his silence. But tonight, Enzo found out the boy bought a ticket to Chicago. He’s coming here, Luca. To find out who his real father was.”
Reversal.
Vanessa wasn't marrying Luca for the merger. She was marrying him to get close to the lockbox, to find the proof her mother left behind before Enzo could destroy it.
She was trying to protect her brother.
“Put the gun down, Vanessa,” Luca said gently. “If Enzo wants him dead, I’m the only one who can protect him. He’s Moretti blood.”
Vanessa hesitated.
Then she lowered the gun, dropping to her knees on the plush carpet, burying her face in her hands.
“His train arrives at Union Station in thirty minutes,” she wept. “Enzo’s men are already waiting there.”
Luca didn't waste a second.
He grabbed the letter and the watch, shoving them into his pocket.
“Emma, stay here,” Luca ordered.
“No,” I said, standing up. “My father was a union man. I know Union Station better than anyone. I know the service tunnels.”
Luca looked at me. He saw the stubbornness in my eyes.
“Let’s go.”
We grabbed Frank from the foyer and sped toward downtown Chicago.
The rain had started, slicking the streets in black glass.
We arrived at Union Station with ten minutes to spare.
“Which platform?” Luca asked as we ran through the massive, echoing great hall.
“Platform 4,” I said, leading them toward the maintenance corridors to avoid the main concourse.
We bypassed the ticket gates, slipping through a heavy metal door labeled STAFF ONLY.
When we emerged onto the dimly lit platform, the Boston train was just pulling in, its brakes squealing against the steel tracks.
But we weren't the only ones waiting.
Standing beneath the flickering platform lights were four of Enzo’s men in heavy dark coats.
The train doors hissed open.
Passengers began to step off.
And then, I saw him.
A young man, maybe nineteen. He had dark hair, broad shoulders, and he was holding a battered canvas duffel bag.
He looked exactly like the young Michael Moretti in Frank’s photograph.
Enzo’s men moved instantly, cutting through the crowd toward the boy.
“Hey!” Luca shouted, sprinting forward.
One of Enzo’s men turned, reaching inside his coat for a weapon.
Before he could draw, Frank Marino stepped right in front of him.
The old man didn't flinch.
He swung his dented metal lunch pail with everything he had.
The heavy metal struck the thug directly in the jaw with a sickening crunch.
The man went down hard.
But as Frank followed through, a second thug drew his gun and fired.
The bullet caught Frank in the side.
The old man stumbled backward, dropping the lunch pail.
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“Frank!” I screamed.
TITLE: THE WAREHOUSE ON THE RIVER
