Chapter 7 - The Blood On The Steering Wheel
The fluorescent lights of the kitchen flickered, casting long, harsh shadows across the stainless-steel counters.
I stared at the small piece of paper in Adrian’s hand.
I paid the driver.
The words didn't make sense. Why would Teresa Moretti, a woman who had just watched her oldest son suffer horrific burns, write a secret note about paying a cab driver?
Sal’s face went pale. The baseball bat in his hands slowly lowered until the heavy end rested on the tile floor.
“Teresa wrote that?” Sal asked, his voice barely a breath.
“It was hidden inside Nico’s watch,” Adrian said, his eyes scanning the old man’s face. “The watch my mother kept locked in her bottom drawer for fourteen years. Why did she pay the driver, Sal?”
Sal shook his head, taking a step backward. “I don't know, Adrian. I swear to God. I put Sarah in the cab. I gave the driver fifty bucks and told him to go to the Greyhound station.”
“You’re lying.”
Adrian stood up, his towering frame casting a shadow over the old man. The mafia boss who had ruthlessly built an empire had returned.
“My mother didn't hide notes about fifty-dollar cab rides,” Adrian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal calm. “If she paid the driver, she paid him for something else.”
Answer one: Teresa was secretly involved in my mother’s escape that night.
Open two: Why would Teresa hide the truth from her own son? What did she pay the driver to do?
Celeste, still leaning against the refrigerator, let out a wicked, breathless laugh.
“Don't you get it, Adrian?” Celeste sneered, adjusting her wrinkled red coat. “Your precious mother wasn't a saint. She hated Sarah just as much as I did. She didn't pay the driver to take her to safety.”
My blood ran cold.
“Shut your mouth,” Adrian snapped at her.
“She paid him to get rid of her!” Celeste smiled, her eyes wide and venomous. “Teresa knew Nico was ruined. She paid the cab driver to make sure the waitress and the bastard baby never made it to the bus station.”
“No!” I yelled, stepping forward. “My mother survived! She raised me!”
“Did she?” Celeste asked, looking at me with absolute contempt. “Or did she just survive long enough to have you before the injuries caught up with her?”
I felt a sickening knot twist in my stomach.
My mother had died of kidney failure when I was twelve. But for as long as I could remember, she had suffered from severe, chronic pain. She had deep, jagged scars along her ribs that she always claimed were from a childhood fall.
Adrian turned to Sal. “Who was the driver, Sal?”
Sal swallowed hard. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a profound, heavy sorrow.
“It was an off-the-books cab,” Sal whispered. “A kid who used to run numbers for the neighborhood. His name was Marco.”
Adrian froze.
The name hung in the air like a live grenade.
“Marco,” Adrian repeated. “My head of security?”
“He wasn't your head of security back then,” Sal said. “He was just a kid trying to make a buck. Teresa knew him. She trusted him.”
My heart began to hammer violently against my ribs.
Marco.
The massive, silent man in the tailored suit who guarded Adrian’s mansion. The man who had driven Celeste and me to the restaurant tonight.
“Where is Marco right now?” Adrian asked, his voice suddenly urgent.
We all turned to look at the alley windows.
The black SUV was still parked outside in the rain.
But the driver’s seat was empty.
Before Adrian could draw the weapon holstered beneath his jacket, the heavy metal door of the kitchen swung open.
Marco stood in the doorway.
He was a mountain of a man, rain dripping from his black overcoat. His face was completely unreadable.
And in his right hand, he held a suppressed pistol.
It was pointed directly at Adrian’s chest.
“Marco,” Adrian said, his voice deadly calm. “What are you doing?”
“Following orders, boss,” Marco said, his voice a low rumble.
“Whose orders? Celeste’s father?”
Marco shook his head. “Teresa’s.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
“My mother has been dead for two years,” Adrian said.
“Her orders didn't expire,” Marco replied, stepping fully into the kitchen and closing the door behind him with a heavy thud. “She told me if anyone ever dug up the truth about the fire... I was to clean it up. Completely.”
Marco looked at me. His cold eyes showed no remorse.
“I’m sorry, kid,” Marco said. “I didn't finish the job fourteen years ago. I let your mother go because she was pregnant. I drove her out of state and told Teresa I dumped the body in the river. But Teresa was right. Loose ends always come back.”
He raised the gun, shifting his aim from Adrian directly to my face.
“No!” Adrian roared.
He lunged across the prep table, shoving me violently to the floor just as a suppressed gunshot spit through the air.
The bullet shattered the heavy ceramic flour jar behind where I had been standing, sending a cloud of white dust exploding into the air.
I hit the tile hard, the breath knocked out of my lungs.
Adrian drew his own weapon, firing twice in Marco’s direction.
Marco dove behind the stainless-steel ovens, the bullets sparking off the thick metal.
The kitchen descended into absolute chaos.
Sal grabbed his baseball bat and swung it blindly in the dust, screaming in anger.
Celeste shrieked, dropping to the floor and crawling frantically toward the dining room doors to escape.
Adrian grabbed the collar of my coat and hauled me behind the heavy oak butcher block in the center of the kitchen.
“Stay down!” Adrian ordered, reloading his pistol with practiced, terrifying speed.
“He’s going to kill us!” I choked out, coughing on the flour dust.
“Nobody dies tonight,” Adrian vowed, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “I lost my brother in this room. I am not losing you.”
He leaned out to fire another shot, but a heavy, metallic clatter echoed near the ovens.
Marco had thrown something across the floor.
It slid across the tile and stopped inches from my hands.
It was a heavy, silver Zippo lighter.
And the flame was already lit.
I looked up.
A massive pool of cooking oil was rapidly spreading across the floor from a punctured deep fryer Marco had shot during the crossfire.
The flame of the lighter touched the edge of the oil.
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And a wall of fire instantly erupted between us and the door.
TITLE: The Fire In The Flour
