Chapter 2 - IN THE DARK
The darkness was absolute, but the noise was deafening.
Glass shattered. Tables overturned. The screams of Chicago’s most powerful people echoed off the walnut walls.
Noah couldn’t see the gunshots, but he felt the heat of them. They ripped through the space where Vincent DeLuca had been sitting just a fraction of a second earlier.
A heavy hand grabbed Noah’s collar.
It wasn’t a gentle pull. It was a violent, desperate yank that dragged the ten-year-old boy under the thick oak table just as a spray of bullets shredded the white linen cloth above them.
Noah squeezed his eyes shut, his hands clamped over his ears.
"Breathe, kid," a deep voice rumbled right next to his ear.
It was Vincent.
The mafia boss hadn't run. He hadn't panicked. Even in the pitch black, his breathing was steady. Noah could smell the expensive cologne and the sharp, metallic tang of gunpowder.
"They cut the main breaker," Vincent whispered, his voice barely audible over the screaming. "Emergency lights will kick on in ten seconds. When they do, this room becomes a slaughterhouse."
Noah felt something cold and heavy press against his chest. It was a heavy silver meat cleaver from a nearby serving cart.
"Hold this," Vincent commanded. "Don't swing it. Just hold it tight."
Above them, someone shouted in Italian. It was one of Vincent’s bodyguards, the one who had let Noah pass. The shout was cut short by a sickening thud, followed by the sound of a body hitting the marble floor.
"Three on the left, two by the piano," Vincent muttered, calculating. "Vivienne has the detonator for the lights."
Noah’s heart hammered against his ribs. The woman beside you knows. He had warned him. But he hadn't realized how much she knew.
Suddenly, a faint amber glow flickered from the emergency wall sconces.
The shadows leaped across the room. Noah saw the polished black shoes of a hitman stepping carefully toward their table. The man held a suppressed pistol, scanning the wreckage.
Vincent didn't wait.
He didn't draw a gun. Instead, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a solid gold money clip, and hurled it across the room. It shattered a crystal champagne flute on a far table.
The hitman spun toward the sound, firing twice into the shadows.
In that split second, Vincent surged upward. He grabbed the edge of the heavy oak table and flipped it entirely, sending it crashing into the hitman’s knees. The man went down with a grunt.
Vincent grabbed Noah’s wrist. "Move."
They didn't go toward the kitchen. They didn't go toward the river hall.
Vincent dragged Noah toward the heavy velvet curtains lining the back wall—the coat check room. It was a dead end. Everyone knew it was a dead end.
"Mr. DeLuca," Noah gasped, tripping over a discarded chair. "There's no door!"
"There’s always a door," Vincent said grimly.
They threw themselves behind the coat counter just as the dining room erupted in a fresh wave of gunfire. Vincent pushed aside a rack of expensive wool coats, revealing a rusted iron grate set into the baseboard. It was an old laundry chute, left over from when the building was a hotel in the 1920s.
"In," Vincent ordered, ripping the grate off with a terrifying display of raw strength.
Noah scrambled into the dusty chute. It was terrifyingly narrow. Vincent barely managed to squeeze his broad shoulders in behind him.
They slid in darkness for what felt like an eternity, the sounds of the massacre fading above them. They crashed into a pile of damp linens in the basement.
Noah lay there, trembling, gasping for air.
Vincent stood up, brushing dust from his suit as if he had just stepped out of a taxi. But in the dim basement light, Noah saw it.
Vincent’s white collar was soaked in blood.
Before Noah could speak, the basement door rattled. Someone was trying to get in.
Vincent reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. The note Noah had written.
"You saved my life, kid," Vincent said softly. "Now, tell me how my fiancée knew exactly where my mother’s diamond watch was kept."
Noah froze. He hadn't mentioned a watch.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed. He looked down at his own wrist. The heavy gold watch was gone. In its place was a thin, cheap leather strap.
"She took it," Vincent whispered, a chilling realization dawning on his face. "She didn't just try to kill me. She took the keys to the vault."
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The door handle turned. A heavy boot kicked the wood.
"And whoever is behind that door," Vincent said, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from his ankle, "knows exactly where we are."
