Chapter 6 - THE GHOST OF CLARA
“Dante! Wake up!”
The rain was relentless, washing the blood from my hands as quickly as it poured from Dante’s side. He was unconscious, his massive body dead weight in the mud.
Leo was screaming against my chest, the cold and the noise overwhelming his tiny senses. I couldn't carry Dante. I couldn't stay here. Lorenzo’s men would follow the tunnel soon.
I looked wildly around the dark tree line. Parked fifty yards away, hidden under the canopy of weeping willows, was an old, rusted Chevrolet truck. An estate gardener’s vehicle. The keys were still dangling from the ignition, glinting in the moonlight.
Adrenaline, cold and sharp, flooded my veins.
I grabbed Dante by the lapels of his ruined suit jacket and pulled. He was impossibly heavy, but panic gave me strength I didn't know I possessed. I dragged him through the mud, sobbing with the effort, until we reached the truck.
I managed to heave him into the passenger side floorboard, hiding him from view, then secured Leo in the bench seat, wrapping him in my dry sweater. I slid behind the wheel, praying the engine would turn over.
It sputtered, coughed, and roared to life.
I drove without headlights, navigating by memory and moonlight until we hit the old county road. Once we were miles away from the estate, I flipped the lights on and drove toward the only place Lorenzo wouldn't think to look.
My childhood apartment on the South Side.
It had been empty for months, tied up in the landlord's legal disputes, but I still had the key hidden under the loose brick on the porch.
By the time I dragged Dante up the narrow, creaking stairs and into the dusty living room, he was pale as a sheet. I locked the deadbolts, pulled the curtains tight, and laid him out on the old, faded rug where my mother used to sew.
I laid Leo in a makeshift bed of pillows on the sofa. He was exhausted, finally drifting into a fitful sleep, his little hand gripping the edge of my sweater.
I ran to the bathroom, tearing open the old first-aid kit my mother always kept fully stocked. Bandages, antiseptic, a needle and thread. She had prepared for violence her whole life, and now I knew why.
I knelt beside Dante, tearing his bloody shirt open. The bullet had gone clean through his side—a clean exit wound. No vital organs hit, but he was bleeding out.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, pouring the antiseptic directly over the wound.
Dante’s body jerked violently. His eyes flew open, wide and wild, a guttural groan ripping from his throat. His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with bone-crushing force.
“It’s me! It’s Mara!” I cried out.
He blinked, the feral panic slowly fading as his eyes focused on my face in the dim light of the streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. He let go of my wrist, his head falling back against the floorboards, chest heaving.
“You… you didn't run,” he rasped.
“I’m tying off the wound,” I said, my hands shaking as I packed the gauze tight and wrapped the bandage around his torso. “You lost a lot of blood. You have to stay still.”
Dante looked around the dingy, dust-covered apartment. “Where are we?”
“My old apartment,” I said, tying the bandage off. “The place my mother raised me. Lorenzo doesn't know about it. He thinks we lived in the city.”
Dante gritted his teeth against the pain, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He looked at Leo sleeping safely on the couch, and then he looked at me. His dark eyes were intense, stripping away the walls I had spent my life building.
“You saved my life,” he said softly.
“You saved mine first,” I replied, sitting back on my heels.
The silence between us was heavy, charged with something I was too terrified to name. He was a mafia boss. I was a waitress. But sitting here on the floor, covered in his blood, those titles meant absolutely nothing.
“I need a phone,” Dante said, breaking the spell. “I have to contact my under-capos. Lorenzo is going to declare me dead by morning and take control of the syndicate. If he does, he’ll have the resources of a small army looking for you and Leo.”
“I don't have a phone. I dropped it at the restaurant.” I stood up, wiping the blood on my jeans. “But my mother had an old burner phone she kept hidden. She told me never to use it unless men in suits came looking for us.”
I walked over to the small bedroom closet. The air was stale, smelling faintly of lavender and old mothballs. I reached into the back, pulling out my mother’s heavy, wool winter coat.
I ran my hands along the hemline until I felt the hard, rectangular lump sewn into the lining.
I grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen and carefully sliced the fabric open.
Inside was a cheap prepaid cell phone, a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and a folded letter.
I dropped the phone and the money, my hands trembling as I unfolded the letter. It was written in my mother’s cramped, rushed handwriting.
Mara, if you are reading this, he found me. Lorenzo found me. Do not trust the police. Do not trust the banks. There is only one man in Chicago who hates Lorenzo as much as I do. His name is Paul Rossi. He owes me his life. Go to Ristorante Bellagio. Tell him you are Clara’s daughter. He will hide you.
My blood turned entirely to ice.
“Dante,” I whispered, walking slowly back into the living room, the letter shaking in my hand. “My manager at the restaurant. The man who fired me tonight. His name is Paul.”
Dante frowned, wincing as he shifted his weight. “Paul? Paul Rossi?”
“Yes. My mother wrote this letter years ago. She said he owed her his life. She said he would protect me.”
I looked at Dante, a sickening realization dawning on me. “Paul put that photograph of my grandmother up behind the bar tonight. He said he found it in the basement. But what if he didn't?”
Dante’s eyes widened, the tactical genius of the syndicate boss kicking in. “He put it up specifically because he knew I was coming in for dinner. He knew I would recognize the resemblance to Sofia.”
“He wasn't trying to hide me,” I breathed, the horror setting in. “He was putting me on display. He used me as bait to draw you out.”
Suddenly, the silence of the apartment was shattered by heavy footsteps echoing on the wooden stairs outside the door.
Not one person. Several.
Dante immediately grabbed his gun from the floor, ignoring his bleeding side, his body tense and ready for war.
A loud, rhythmic knock sounded at the door.
One. Two. Three.
“Mara?” a voice called out through the thin wood.
May you like
It was Paul.
“I know you’re in there, sweetheart,” Paul’s voice was sickeningly sweet, devoid of the pathetic, fearful tone he used at the restaurant. “Lorenzo sends his regards. Open the door, hand over the baby, and we’ll make this quick.”
