Chapter 3 - THE HOUSE ON WEST ADDISON
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The house was a narrow, two-story bungalow with peeling white paint and sagging gutters.
A single amber porch light flickered beneath the eaves, buzzing with moths despite the freezing rain.
Weeds grew through the cracks of the concrete walkway, and an overgrown hedge blocked half of the front bay window.
Sal brought the heavy sedan to a stop against the curb, killing the engine and the headlights.
The quiet of the street settled over us like a suffocating blanket.
Through the curtained front window, the dim, blue flicker of an old television screen illuminated the dark living room.
Luca opened his door, stepping out into the pouring rain without waiting for an umbrella.
His black tailored jacket was instantly soaked, but he didn't seem to notice the freezing wind whipping off the lake.
Sal and I climbed out of the car, following close behind his broad, towering silhouette.
We walked up the creaking wooden steps of the front porch.
Beside the front door, half-hidden behind an empty plastic flower pot, lay a small blue rain boot.
Luca looked down at the tiny boot, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the matching red mitten.
He raised his heavy, tattooed fist and knocked three times against the weathered wooden door.
The sound echoed loudly into the quiet night.
Inside, the floorboards creaked.
A shadow moved across the lace curtain of the window.
“Who’s out there?” an elderly, defensive female voice called through the locked door.
“Miss Bellini isn't supposed to come back until Friday!”
Luca took half a step forward, his voice low, commanding, and impossible to ignore.
“Open the door.”
The deadbolt clicked back hesitantly, and the door opened three inches on a brass security chain.
An elderly woman with gray hair pulled into a tight bun peeked through the gap, wearing a faded knitted cardigan over blue scrubs.
She adjusted her thick glasses, squinting through the dark at Luca’s imposing figure.
The moment her eyes recognized his face, the breath vanished from her chest in a sharp, terrified gasp.
She had seen that face on the front page of the Chicago Tribune.
Everyone in the city knew the face of Luca Moretti.
“Oh, dear God,” the woman whimpered, her hands trembling violently against the chain.
“Break the chain, Sal,” Luca said calmly.
Sal leaned his shoulder against the wood with the quiet efficiency of an old street enforcer.
With one sharp shove, the screws tore free from the splintering jamb with a dry snap.
The door swung wide open into the dim hallway.
The house smelled of boiled cabbage, antiseptic floor cleaner, and stale dampness.
The old woman backed away down the narrow corridor, clutching her chest, her slippers shuffling against the worn linoleum.
“I don't know anything! I was just hired by the agency to watch him!” she pleaded, her voice shaking with tears.
“Who hired you?” Luca demanded, stepping over the threshold, water dripping from his shoulders onto the floor.
“Mr. Bellini! Salvatore Bellini!” she sobbed, pressing herself against the wall.
“He pays me two thousand dollars in cash every month to keep the boy inside this house!”
Luca’s jaw set into stone.
From the far end of the hallway, a small wooden door swung open.
A little boy of about six years old stood framed in the dim light of a small bedroom.
He had messy dark curls falling over his forehead, wide hazel eyes, and a small dimple in his left chin.
He was wearing oversized gray sweatpants and a faded navy-blue T-shirt that hung nearly to his knees.
In his small hands, he was holding the other red mitten.
He looked past the terrified nurse, past Sal, past me, and his eyes locked directly onto Luca.
The little boy didn't flinch or run.
He took two cautious steps forward, his small bare feet padding softly against the cold linoleum floor.
He looked at the towering man standing in the rain-soaked black suit.
“Are you my daddy?” the boy asked in a small, trembling whisper.
Luca Moretti stopped breathing.
The ruthless, terrifying mob boss who had stared down rival guns without flinching dropped instantly to both knees on the floor.
He looked into the little boy’s face, and for the first time since I had entered his home, I saw Luca’s hands begin to shake.
“What is your name, buddy?” Luca choked out, his voice cracking with raw emotion.
The boy held up his red mitten, matching it to the one Luca held in his fingers.
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“My name is Leo,” the child whispered.
“Mommy told me I had to hide here until my daddy came to take me home.”
