Chapter 3 - THE SILVER KEY
The alley behind Il Destino smelled of rain and rotting cardboard. Clara stumbled as Rico pulled her through the heavy steel doors, the cold night air hitting her face like a slap. Dante was already ahead of them, moving with frightening speed as he unlocked a black SUV idling in the shadows.
“Get in,” Rico commanded, shoving Clara into the backseat before buckling Leo into a car seat she hadn’t noticed. The boy didn’t cry. He just gripped his warm glass of milk, his eyes fixed on Clara.
“You can’t just kidnap me,” Clara gasped, struggling to catch her breath as Dante slammed the gas pedal. The SUV tore out of the alley, tires screaming against the wet asphalt.
“I’m keeping you breathing,” Rico snapped, staring out the back window. “Silas doesn’t send flowers, Clara. If Marco was reporting to him, Silas already has men moving.”
“Why would your uncle care about me?” Clara demanded, pressing her back against the leather seat. “I haven’t seen Elena in five years! She sent me money once a year, and we spoke on burner phones. She kept me completely separated from you.”
“Because,” Dante’s deep voice rumbled from the driver’s seat, “Elena was asking questions about Silas before she died. Questions she wasn’t supposed to ask.”
Rico shot Dante a sharp look, but the security chief shook his head. “She has to know, Boss. She’s in the car.”
Clara leaned forward. “Questions about what?”
Rico ran a hand over his face, the exhaustion of the last six months finally breaking through his terrifying facade. “Silas controls the port operations. Two months before the crash, Elena found discrepancies in the books. Money bleeding out. She thought someone was stealing from the family. I told her to let it go, that it was too dangerous.”
“Elena never let anything go,” Clara whispered, a sad smile touching her lips. “When we were kids, if she found a locked door, she’d break her fingernails trying to open it.”
“She did,” Rico agreed softly. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small velvet pouch. He tossed it onto Clara’s lap. “Marco had this in his pocket. Dante lifted it while he was pinning him down.”
Clara opened the pouch. Inside was a heavy, antique silver key. The bow was shaped like a crescent moon, worn smooth from years of handling.
“Do you recognize it?” Rico asked.
Clara stared at the key, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t want to recognize it. She wanted to throw it out the window and go back to her cramped apartment. But she remembered a rainy afternoon in Chicago, Elena packing a duffel bag, holding this exact key. If anything ever happens, Clara. The crescent moon opens the truth.
“It’s a safety deposit box,” Clara said slowly. “At the First Manhattan Trust. Elena opened it under our mother’s maiden name.”
Rico leaned closer, his dark eyes intense. “What’s inside it?”
“I don’t know. She said it was her insurance policy.”
“Insurance against who?” Rico asked.
Before Clara could answer, little Leo reached out with his free hand. He wasn’t pointing at the key. He was pointing at the rearview mirror, straight at Dante’s reflection.
“Bad car,” Leo said. His tiny voice was clear, cutting through the tension like a razor.
Clara turned around. Behind them, weaving aggressively through the New York traffic, were two black sedans without license plates. They were gaining fast.
Rico cursed, drawing a sleek black pistol from a shoulder holster. Dante swerved hard to avoid a taxi, throwing Clara against the door.
May you like
“Leo,” Clara gasped, reaching out to steady the boy.
Leo looked at her, entirely unfazed by the swerving car. He pointed his little finger at the black sedans in the distance. “The bad car,” Leo repeated, his brown eyes locking onto Clara’s. “The car that hit Mama.”
