Chapter 3 - The Photograph in the Hotel Room
We didn’t go back to the mansion.
Luca walked straight to his car, opened the passenger door for me, and drove us through the iron gates into the Chicago night.
He drove like a man who had just realized his entire life was a lie.
“Where are we going?” I asked, my hands trembling in my lap.
“To get my family back,” Luca replied.
The budget motel near O’Hare was a crumbling brick building bathed in the flickering neon light of a broken vacancy sign.
Luca didn’t bother knocking. He pounded his fist against Room 114.
“George. Open the door.”
The deadbolt slid back.
George Marino stood in the doorway, looking ten years older than he had that morning. When he saw Luca, his shoulders sagged. Then he saw me, and his eyes dropped to the scrape on my neck.
“I’m sorry, Julia,” the older man whispered.
“Pack your things,” Luca said, stepping into the cramped room. Ellen Marino was sitting on the edge of the sagging mattress, wiping her eyes with a tissue.
“Luca, we can’t,” George said, closing the door. “Vanessa made it clear. If we speak to you, she’ll ruin us. She has a photograph.”
Luca froze. “What photograph?”
George walked to his cheap suitcase. He unzipped the front pocket and pulled out a glossy 8x10 print. He handed it to Luca.
I looked over Luca’s shoulder.
It was a picture of George, taken years ago, handing a thick manila envelope to a man in a dark alley.
“Vanessa’s private investigator gave her that yesterday,” George said, his voice shaking. “She said it proves I was selling your father’s secrets to the Chicago syndicate. She said if I didn’t leave quietly, she’d give it to the feds. I’d die in prison.”
Luca stared at the photo.
Then he looked at George.
“Were you?” Luca asked quietly.
“Never,” George swore, tears pooling in his eyes. “I swear on my life, Luca. Your father asked me to deliver that envelope to a private investigator. He was looking into Vanessa’s family.”
Luca’s head snapped up. “My father was investigating the Bellinis?”
“Yes. Weeks before he died. He thought Vanessa’s father was stealing from the union funds.”
Luca looked back at the photograph. He traced the edge of the image with his thumb.
“This isn’t a threat,” Luca said softly. “It’s a confession.”
He flipped the photograph over.
Stuck to the back of the photo was a small, blue baggage claim ticket from O’Hare Airport.
The date printed on it was tomorrow.
“She’s not just looking for a safe,” I said, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “She’s leaving.”
Luca pocketed the ticket.
“Get in the car, George. Ellen, let me carry that bag.”
“Where are we going?” Ellen asked nervously.
Luca’s eyes darkened as he looked out toward the city skyline.
“You’re going home. And I’m going to cancel a wedding.”
When we pulled up to the estate gates, two black SUVs were blocking the entrance.
Four men in suits stood in the headlights.
None of them worked for Luca.
They worked for Vanessa’s father.
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And one of them was holding my apartment keys.
TITLE: The Keys in the Driveway
