Chapter 5 - The Secret at St. Jude’s
The black Cadillac Escalade sliced through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago like a hearse.
Marco drove, his eyes constantly scanning the rearview mirrors. Luca sat in the passenger seat, his gun resting on his thigh, while I huddled in the back, clutching a heavy ring of brass keys that I had retrieved from my father’s apartment twenty minutes earlier.
The old neighborhood had changed.
Eighteenth Street, once bustling with Italian bakeries and Polish butcher shops, was now lined with boarded-up storefronts, flickering streetlights, and rusted iron fire escapes.
We pulled into the rear alley behind St. Jude’s Parish.
The Catholic school had been closed for eight years, condemned by the city due to structural issues. In the dark, the three-story brick building looked like a sleeping giant, its stained-glass windows black and lifeless against the stormy sky.
“Nobody’s here,” Marco reported, lowering his night-vision binoculars. “Castiglione’s men hit Mrs. Carter’s apartment three blocks south, but they don't know about this place yet.”
“They will soon,” Luca said, opening his door. “Vanessa knows Vincent spent half his childhood hiding in this school. When she realizes the apartment was empty, this is where she’ll tell Castiglione to look.”
He stepped out into the rain and opened my door, extending a hand to help me down.
“Stay close to me, Emma,” he commanded softly.
The rain soaked through my thin canvas jacket in seconds, but I barely felt the cold. Adrenaline was pounding in my ears.
We reached the heavy oak service door at the back of the cafeteria. I stepped forward, my hands shaking so violently that the keys jingled loudly in the dark.
“Breathe,” Luca murmured, his voice steadying right behind my shoulder. His hand came down gently on mine, guiding the heavy brass skeleton key into the rusted lock. “Just like that.”
The lock gave way with a heavy, metallic *clack*.
We slipped inside, and Marco shut the door behind us, clicking on a high-powered tactical flashlight. The beam cut through the thick air, illuminating clouds of dust that had been settling for nearly a decade.
It smelled like old floor wax, damp chalk, and cold brick.
“Where did Vincent hang out?” Luca asked, looking around the cavernous cafeteria. Long folding tables were stacked against the walls. In the corner sat the stainless-steel serving counter where Mrs. Carter had stood for nearly four decades.
“Not the cafeteria,” I whispered, memories of my father’s stories surfacing through the panic. “My dad used to say Vincent Bellini was like a stray cat. He didn't like open rooms. When he hid from his father or the truant officers, he went below.”
Luca frowned. “The boiler room?”
“The old coal chute,” I said, pointing toward a narrow metal door behind the industrial dishwashers. “It was decommissioned in the seventies when they converted the school to natural gas. The chute leads to an empty brick vault beneath the boilers. My dad kept the door padlocked so the kids wouldn't fall in.”
Luca nodded to Marco.
We moved silently through the kitchen. The linoleum cracked under our boots. When we reached the narrow metal door, I selected a smaller, rusted key from my father’s ring. It turned with a screech of protesting iron.
The door swung inward, revealing a flight of steep concrete stairs descending into absolute blackness.
The air that rose from the basement was frigid, smelling of damp earth and rotting timber.
Luca took the lead, gun raised, flashlight slicing through the gloom. Marco stayed at the top of the stairs, guarding the exit with a submachine gun slung across his chest.
I followed Luca down into the dark.
At the bottom of the stairs sat a massive cast-iron furnace, its pipes sprawling across the ceiling like the ribs of an ancient beast. Behind it, half-hidden by piles of discarded wooden desks and broken chalkboards, was an iron hatch set directly into the brick foundation wall.
The coal vault.
Luca pushed a broken desk out of the way with one arm. The wood splintered with a sharp crack that echoed off the damp masonry.
On the iron hatch, someone had scratched two letters into the rust years ago with a nail:
*V. B.*
“He was here,” Luca said, his breath fogging in the cold beam of his flashlight.
He gripped the iron wheel of the hatch and pulled. The hinges groaned, showering orange flakes of rust onto his leather shoes, but the heavy door yielded, swinging open to reveal a small, dry brick alcove no larger than a walk-in closet.
Inside sat an old sleeping bag, a rotted pair of sneakers, several empty soda cans from the nineties—and a green military surplus ammunition box.
Luca knelt down, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of the ammo box.
He pulled it out into the beam of my flashlight.
The latch was sealed with duct tape that had yellowed and hardened into brittle plastic over twenty-two years. Luca slid his pocketknife through the seal and flipped the lid open.
I leaned in, holding my breath.
Inside wasn't money.
There was a faded photograph of a twelve-year-old Vincent Bellini with his arm wrapped around a seven-year-old girl in pigtails holding an ice cream cone—Vanessa.
Beside the photo lay a small microcassette recorder.
And beneath the recorder was a thick, black leather-bound ledger.
Luca picked up the ledger and flipped through the pages. Every single leaf was covered in handwritten dates, amounts, bank routing numbers, and names.
Prominent names.
State senators. Circuit court judges. Police commanders.
And at the top of every single column was the name: *SILVIO CASTIGLIONE.*
“This wasn't Vincent’s,” Luca breathed, his eyes scanning the columns with rapid comprehension. “Marco Bellini was Castiglione’s bookkeeper. The dry-cleaning business was just a front to launder the mob’s bribes to city hall.”
My eyes widened. “So when the dry cleaners burned down...”
“Marco didn't burn it for the insurance,” Luca realized, his voice trembling with fury. “He stole this ledger to protect himself. And when Castiglione came looking for it, Marco gave it to his son to hide before they killed him.”
Suddenly, the floor above us creaked.
A heavy, distinct sound. Boots walking across the cafeteria floor.
Then came Marco’s voice from the top of the stairs, sharp and quiet through the radio pinned to Luca’s collar:
May you like
*“Boss. We’ve got company. Three black SUVs just blocked the alley. It’s Castiglione’s crew—and Vanessa is with them.”*
***
