Chapter 4 - The Secret Sewn Into My Mother's Dress|
By the time we reached my apartment, the sun was beginning to rise over Chicago.
Luca insisted that two security guards accompany us.
I hated the idea of strangers standing outside my home, but after Vanessa's phone call, I was too frightened to argue.
My apartment was small, with mismatched furniture and photographs of my mother covering the living room wall.
Luca paused beside one of those photographs.
It showed Ruth Bennett standing in a restaurant kitchen, smiling beside a woman with long dark hair.
I had looked at that picture hundreds of times.
But until that morning, I hadn't recognized the second woman.
“Elena,” Luca whispered.
He picked up the frame.
For the first time since I'd known him, the most feared man in Chicago looked completely defenseless.
“She looks happy.”
I nodded.
“My mother always said this was her favorite photograph.”
Luca stared at it.
“I've never seen it before.”
Something about his expression made me feel as though I had opened a door into a childhood he had spent years trying to escape.
I led him into my bedroom.
At the bottom of my closet stood a cardboard box filled with my mother's belongings.
Inside were photographs, birthday cards, old jewelry, and the blue dress.
It was simple, with tiny white flowers printed across the fabric.
My mother had worn it every Sunday for as long as I could remember.
Even when the seams began to fade, she refused to replace it.
I spread it across my bed.
“What are we looking for?” Luca asked.
“I'm not sure.”
I examined the collar, pockets, and lining.
Everything appeared normal.
Then my fingers caught on a thick seam near the lower hem.
The stitching was different from the rest.
It looked as though someone had opened the fabric and sewn it closed again by hand.
“Do you have scissors?” Luca asked.
I brought him a small sewing kit.
He handed it back to me.
“It's your mother's dress.”
“You should be the one to open it.”
My hands shook as I carefully cut through the thread.
Something stiff slid into my palm.
It was a small brass key wrapped in waxed paper.
Written on the paper were three words.
“Union Station lockers.”
Beneath them was a number.
214.
I stared at the key.
“My mother kept this hidden for almost thirty years.”
Luca examined the note.
“Then whatever it opens mattered enough for her to protect it all that time.”
An hour later, we reached Union Station.
I knew old coin-operated lockers had long since been replaced, and I was afraid the key would lead nowhere.
But the number on its tag matched a private storage service operating in a building a few blocks away.
The company's records showed that Ruth Bennett had rented a small storage box and prepaid its renewal through an automatic account.
After verifying my identity and presenting the paperwork establishing me as her surviving daughter, I was allowed to inspect the box.
Inside was a blue metal tin.
My mother's handwriting appeared across its lid.
“For Claire, when she is ready.”
I sat down on a bench.
For a moment, I couldn't open it.
My mother had been gone for six years.
I would have given anything to hear her voice one more time.
Luca sat beside me.
“You don't have to do this alone.”
I looked at him.
He was still wearing the tuxedo from his wedding, although the jacket was wrinkled and his tie had disappeared.
There was no trace of the terrifying mafia boss everyone feared.
Only a man who had lost his mother and was terrified of losing his father.
I opened the tin.
Inside were three envelopes, a small notebook, a photograph, and an old cassette tape.
The notebook contained dozens of handwritten financial entries.
Several names appeared repeatedly.
Anthony Bellini.
Hawthorne Properties.
Daniel Price.
Beside certain entries, my mother had written the same two words.
“Fire payment.”
Luca leaned closer.
He recognized one of the company names immediately.
“Hawthorne Properties.”
His voice changed.
“That's the holding company that owned two restaurants destroyed by fires in the late nineties.”
I turned another page.
There were addresses, dates, payments, and notes about businesses that had closed after refusing to sell their properties.
At the bottom of the final page, my mother had written a message.
“Elena was right.”
“They were never accidents.”
My stomach twisted.
I lifted the cassette tape.
Across its faded label were the words:
“October 14, 1998 — Elena's last recording.”
I looked at Luca.
He had gone completely still.
Then I noticed the photograph beneath the tape.
It showed Elena standing outside the Moretti restaurant beside my mother.
Behind them, near a black sedan, stood Anthony Bellini.
But he wasn't alone.
Another man was standing beside him.
His face had been circled in red ink.
May you like
On the back of the photograph, my mother had written one sentence.
“Find Daniel Price before Anthony does.”
