Chapter 4 - THE EMPTY ALLEYWAY
The South Side was dead quiet when we arrived.
Millie’s Diner stood at the corner of 4th and Wabash, its faded neon sign flickering with a tired, electrical hum. The front windows were dark, blocked by the gingham curtains Aunt Dot had washed by hand every Sunday night for forty years.
Dante killed the SUV’s engine half a block away. We rolled to a stop beside a row of rusted municipal trash cans.
"Marco, take the side street," Dante whispered, stepping out into the cold drizzle. "Secure the fire escape. If anyone comes out the back door, I want them boxed in before they hit the pavement."
"Got it, Boss," Marco murmured, melting into the shadows with two of his best men.
Dante turned to me, pulling a heavy steel flashlight from his coat pocket. "Stay close, Grace. The pavement around the cellar doors is uneven."
We crept down the narrow brick alleyway that ran alongside the restaurant. The smell of old grease, wet asphalt, and lingering peach filling hung heavy in the air.
At the back of the building, nestled between two brick buttresses, sat the heavy iron cellar doors—the ones Dante’s father had locked eleven years ago.
And standing right in front of them was Celeste Hart.
She wasn't crying anymore. Her designer heels were planted firmly in the mud, and she was aggressively shoving the brass key we’d seen Aunt Dot holding earlier into the primary deadbolt.
"Damn it," she hissed to herself, twisting the key with both hands. "Turn, you piece of junk—"
"It won't turn, Celeste," Dante’s voice cut through the alley like a gunshot.
Celeste spun around, her face pale, the expensive diamond necklace around her throat catching the amber glow of the streetlamp overhead.
"Dante!" she gasped, her hands flying behind her back as if hiding a weapon. "What—what are you doing here?"
Dante walked slowly out of the shadows, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets, his boots crunching rhythmically against the gravel.
"I could ask you the same question, sweetheart," Dante said, using the exact same patronizing nickname she had used on Aunt Dot earlier that evening. "Though I suppose breaking and entering is a bit more active than just throwing pies in the trash."
Celeste’s eyes darted toward the end of the alley, looking for an escape route, but Marco and his men stepped out from the darkness, blocking the exit.
"You're making a massive mistake, Dante," Celeste snapped, her composure returning as she lifted her chin. "My uncle owns this property now. We have the legal filings. That old woman was squatting on a goldmine, and you're letting sentimentality ruin a multi-million-dollar development deal."
"Your uncle is a criminal who's been hiding behind offshore accounts for a decade," Dante replied coldly, stopping just two feet away from her. "And you're just a delivery girl carrying his messages. Hand over the keys, Celeste."
She glared at him, her lips tightening into a thin line. "Never."
Before Dante could move, a sudden, metallic screech echoed from beneath our feet.
The heavy iron cellar doors didn't just rattle—they buckled upward, as if something massive on the other side had just slammed against the iron mesh from below.
Celeste screamed, stumbling backward into the brick wall.
Dante drew his weapon in a single, fluid motion, stepping directly in front of me.
"Get back," Dante ordered, his eyes locked on the shaking cellar doors.
May you like
Because from beneath the restaurant floor, amid the smell of damp earth and rust, came a sound none of us were prepared for:
A man’s voice, hoarse and desperate, calling out a name we thought had been buried eleven years ago.
