Chapter 7 - A Father’s Debt
The world seemed to stop spinning.
The rain beat down furiously on the asphalt, water swirling around our boots like an angry black river.
Luca halted in his tracks, his gun still raised, his chest heaving. He stared through the sheets of rain at the man standing beside the SUV.
The man was around forty-five. His hair was streaked with gray, his face scarred with the hard lines of a life spent in the shadows. But there was no mistaking the sharp jawline, the crooked nose, and the dark, haunting eyes.
“Vincent?” Luca whispered. The name barely carried over the rumble of thunder.
The man raised both hands slowly, palms open, showing he was unarmed.
“Castiglione always was a terrible shot,” Vincent Bellini said, his voice raspy and scarred. “He thought one bullet in the gut and an open ditch would finish me in ninety-eight. He didn't know your father had an uncle who ran an auto body shop in Peoria.”
Luca’s arm dropped an inch. “You’re alive.”
“Barely,” Vincent said, looking past Luca toward the burning cafeteria where sirens were already beginning to wail in the distance. “I’ve spent twenty-two years running under federal protection. Witness Protection couldn't touch Castiglione because he had half the Chicago judiciary in his pocket. But that ledger...”
Vincent pointed at the canvas bag over Luca’s shoulder.
“That ledger has every wire transfer, every offshore account, and every bribe Castiglione ever paid. It’s the one thing that can put him in a cage for the rest of his miserable life.”
Before Luca could answer, a frantic, gasping figure stumbled out of the darkness behind us.
Vanessa.
Her coat was torn, her hands bloody from crawling over shattered glass. When she looked up and saw the man standing in the glare of the headlights, she froze.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Veronica,” Vincent said softly.
Vanessa collapsed to her knees in the filthy alley puddle, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. “You were dead... he told me you were dead...”
Vincent walked slowly toward his sister, kneeling down in the rain beside her. He didn't hug her. There was too much pain, too many years of betrayal and lies between them. But he placed one weathered hand on top of her head.
“I told you to run, Veronica,” he whispered, his voice cracking with old grief. “The night Anthony Moretti went to prison, I gave you five thousand dollars and told you to buy a bus ticket to California. Why did you come back to him?”
Vanessa looked up through her tears, her face ruined with shame.
“Because I was starving, Vincent!” she screamed into the rain. “Because after the money ran out, nobody looked at me! Nobody cared! Silvio promised me safety! He promised me clothes, a car, an education! All he asked was that I find the ledger!”
She looked at Luca, her eyes desperate, wild with regret.
“I didn't want to hurt you, Luca! I swear to God, I didn't know Castiglione was going to kill you tonight! He told me he just wanted to buy your silence!”
Luca looked at her, his face as hard as the granite stones in the cemetery where his father lay buried.
“You sat at my table,” Luca said, each word dripping with cold disgust. “You drank wine paid for by my father’s blood. You looked at Mrs. Carter—the woman who kept your brother alive when you had nothing—and you told her she belonged with the trash by the service door.”
He shook his head slowly.
“You didn't starve, Veronica. Your soul did.”
Behind us, Marco emerged from the alley, coughing from the smoke, holding a bloody handkerchief to a graze on his forearm.
“Cops are three blocks away, boss,” Marco warned. “Fire department is rolling in. We need to move.”
Vincent stood up, turning back to Luca.
“The Feds have a task force staged at the Drake Hotel downtown,” Vincent said urgently. “Castiglione is heading there right now. He’s hosting the annual Columbus Society Gala on the top floor. Half the city council is in that ballroom right now. He thinks if he’s surrounded by politicians and cameras, you won't touch him.”
Luca looked down at the canvas bag containing the ledger.
Then he looked at me.
“Emma,” he said.
I looked up at him, soaked, shivering, but standing my ground.
“Call Sarah,” Luca said. “Tell her to move your father to Northwestern Memorial Hospital immediately. My private physician will meet them at the front doors. Your father will have a private suite, the best neurological team in the state, and round-the-clock security.”
My eyes filled with tears, not of fear, but of profound, overwhelming relief. “Mr. Moretti... thank you.”
“You protected that book tonight,” Luca said, his hand gently touching my shoulder. “You protected Mrs. Carter. In my family, that makes you one of us.”
He turned back to Vincent Bellini.
May you like
“Get your sister in the car,” Luca ordered, his voice shifting back into the commanding tone of a general preparing for the final assault. “We have a party to attend.”
***
