Chapter 8 - SUNDAY DINNER IN A HOUSE WITHOUT GUARDS|
I had never imagined eating Sunday dinner with Chicago's most feared mafia boss in a kitchen barely large enough for four people.
But that was exactly where I found myself.
Luca had moved Frank out of the hospital and into a quiet townhouse after his doctors cleared him to leave.
The house belonged to a retired family friend on the North Side.
There were no chandeliers.
No marble floors.
No servants waiting beside expensive furniture.
Just a small kitchen, a living room with faded yellow curtains, and a dining table covered with scratches.
Frank loved it immediately.
"This reminds me of our first apartment," he said.
Luca looked around.
"You and Mom lived somewhere this small?"
"Smaller."
Frank opened the refrigerator.
"And we were happy."
I stood beside the stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce.
Frank had insisted on cooking.
His doctor had recommended rest, so we compromised.
He would supervise.
I would do the work.
Luca had been assigned the dangerous responsibility of chopping onions.
He was terrible at it.
I watched him struggle with a dull kitchen knife.
"Sir, those are supposed to be diced."
He glared at the onion.
"They are diced."
"They're the size of golf balls."
Frank burst out laughing.
For a moment, the frightening events of Thanksgiving seemed far away.
Luca looked toward his father.
"You're enjoying this."
"More than you know."
Frank leaned back in his chair.
"Your mother used to make fun of my cooking too."
"Was yours that bad?" I asked.
"Worse."
He pointed toward Luca.
"His mother once made me peel forty pounds of potatoes because I told a customer I could cook faster than she could."
I laughed.
Luca shook his head.
"You're both enjoying my humiliation."
"Very much," Frank said.
It was the first time I had heard him laugh without sadness since Thanksgiving.
But beneath the warmth of that small kitchen, all of us knew danger was still close.
Dante had arranged discreet security outside.
Detective Brooks had been notified of Corinne's warning.
And Maya was preparing documents for Monday's hearing.
Frank had insisted that I eat dinner with them rather than stand beside the table.
When I protested, he pointed toward the empty chair.
"Claire, I already spent one Thanksgiving being told where I wasn't allowed to sit."
I looked at him.
"Mr. Frank—"
"Don't make me spend Sunday telling you the same thing."
So I sat.
Luca carried the bread to the table.
Frank bowed his head.
And for the first time in five years, I ate as a guest rather than an employee.
After dinner, Frank asked Luca to help him into the living room.
Before he left, he touched my shoulder.
"Claire, thank you for reminding us what a family is supposed to look like."
I didn't know what to say.
When Frank was settled, Luca returned to the kitchen.
He began washing the dishes.
I stared at him.
"Sir, you don't have to do that."
He glanced at me.
"Neither do you."
"You're Luca Moretti."
"And these are dirty plates."
I laughed.
He smiled.
Then the smile faded.
"I've been thinking about something Dad said."
"What?"
"That he was trying to save Matteo."
I dried a plate.
"Do you know what he meant?"
Luca nodded slowly.
"Eight years ago, Matteo got himself involved with a private investment group."
"Lakefront Capital?"
"Yes."
"He borrowed money for a business venture that failed."
"What kind of business?"
"Real estate."
Luca looked ashamed.
"He didn't tell anyone how much he owed until people started threatening him."
"Did you help?"
"I offered."
"And?"
"Matteo refused."
He placed a plate in the cupboard.
"He said he'd rather die than owe his older brother another favor."
I studied him.
"Then your father helped instead."
Luca nodded.
"He must have."
"Why keep it secret?"
Luca looked toward the living room.
"Because Dad spent his whole life trying to make sure neither of us felt like a failure."
His voice grew rough.
"I just never realized how much that cost him."
My phone rang.
Corinne.
I answered immediately.
"Corinne?"
Her breathing was uneven.
"Claire, I can't stay where I am."
"Where are you?"
"I have proof."
"Proof of what?"
"The signatures."
I gripped the phone.
"Can you bring it to the police?"
"I don't trust anyone connected to the mansion."
"Detective Brooks is investigating."
"I know."
Her voice dropped.
"But someone has been watching my apartment."
I glanced at Luca.
He understood something was wrong.
"Corinne, listen to me," I said.
"Where's your daughter?"
"With me."
"Good."
"She's frightened."
"Then keep her close."
A car horn sounded in the background.
Corinne gasped.
"They found us."
I stood.
"Where are you?"
"I can't say the name."
"Why?"
"They have people everywhere."
The line crackled.
Then she whispered two words.
"Room four-seventeen."
"Four-seventeen where?"
There was a muffled sound.
I heard her daughter cry out.
Then Corinne said, "Tell Maya to check the reservation."
The call ended.
I stared at the dark screen.
Luca was already reaching for his phone.
"Call Brooks," he said.
I looked toward the living room.
Frank was sitting beside a small lamp, polishing Elena's pocket watch.
He looked so peaceful.
For one awful moment, I wondered whether our efforts to protect him had placed even more people in danger.
Then Luca spoke quietly.
"Claire."
I turned.
"We're not letting them hurt Corinne or her daughter."
I nodded.
And when Detective Brooks answered, I repeated every word Corinne had said.
The detective listened carefully.
Then she asked one question.
"Did she mention a room number?"
"Four-seventeen."
Brooks was silent for several seconds.
Then she said, "We may know where she is."
"Where?"
"The reservation was made through a Lakefront Capital corporate account."
I felt my stomach drop.
"And there's something else," Brooks continued.
"The room was booked using a name already connected to your case."
I gripped the phone.
May you like
"Whose name?"
"Yours, Claire."
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