Chapter 7 - FRANK’S VOW
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The armored black SUV sliced through the blinding Chicago rain, heading straight toward the historic heart of Taylor Street.
Frank sat in the back seat between me and Luca, holding a worn brass key tightly against his palm.
His frail body was wrapped in a thick wool coat, but his eyes were wide and burning with fierce resolve.
“I should have listened to him twenty years ago, Luca,” Frank murmured, staring out at the blurred city lights.
“When the fire happened at the restaurant, Anthony came to my house in the middle of the night smelling of smoke.”
“He told me Arthur Sterling’s crew set the blaze to force us into bankruptcy.”
“I was so angry, so blinded by grief over our mother’s restaurant, that I accused Anthony of burning it for the insurance money.”
Frank closed his eyes as painful tears escaped down his weathered cheeks.
“I struck my own brother across the face with my closed fist,” Frank choked out.
“I threw him out into the snow and told him I never wanted to see his face again.”
I reached over and gently covered Frank’s trembling hand with my own.
“You were hurt and manipulated, Mr. Moretti,” I reassured him softly.
“What matters now is that you are going back to stand by his side.”
Luca looked back from the passenger seat, his eyes softening as he watched his father.
“Anthony never stopped loving you, Dad,” Luca said.
“In letter number six, Anthony wrote that he hid the true 1994 property deed inside the restaurant’s brick baking oven.”
“He knew Arthur Sterling would try to forge a fake deed, so he buried the original with our grandfather's notary seal.”
“Arthur has spent the last month trying to buy the property because he knows his forged paperwork won't hold up in federal court without the original deed destroyed.”
The SUV rounded the corner of Taylor Street, slowing down as it approached a darkened, boarded-up storefront.
Faded green and white paint peeled from the wooden awning that read: Moretti Brothers Trattoria – Est. 1978.
Two black sedans with tinted windows were already parked haphazardly across the sidewalk out front.
Flashlights flickered violently through the broken wooden planks covering the dining room windows.
“Arthur’s men are already inside tearing the walls down,” Luca’s driver whispered, clicking the safety off his weapon.
Luca checked his custom handgun, chambering a round with a smooth, metallic click.
“Dad, Claire, stay inside the vehicle until I clear the building,” Luca ordered sternly.
“No, Luca,” Frank said suddenly, sitting upright with unexpected, startling strength.
The old man gripped the door handle with firm determination, his voice ringing with ancient authority.
“This is my restaurant, built with my sweat and my brother’s blood.”
“I will not cower in the shadows while thieves dig through our memories.”
Luca stared at his elderly father for a long moment, seeing the ferocious lion that had once ruled Chicago’s streets.
Luca nodded slowly with profound respect.
“All right, Dad,” Luca said quietly.
“Let’s go take our home back.”
Luca opened the door, stepping out into the storm with six heavily armed men flanking his sides.
I assisted Frank out of the vehicle, shielding him from the driving rain as we moved toward the shattered entrance.
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The smell of ancient garlic, dried rosemary, and damp ash rushed out to greet us as we stepped across the threshold.
Suddenly, a flashlight beam snapped directly onto Frank’s face, followed by the terrifying sound of cocking rifles.
