Chapter 2 - THE COAT IN THE HALLWAY
I didn’t wait for the phone call to disconnect completely.
I dropped my father’s photograph into the pocket of my apron, leaving Teresa standing frozen in the hallway, and I ran.
I took the back servant stairs, my rubber-soled shoes making almost no sound on the wood. My mind was racing, trying to process what Catherine Moretti had just told me. The man living in that house has been waiting twenty years for your family to come back.
My father was an accountant. A quiet man who spent his weekends planting tomatoes and his evenings reading history books. He wasn't a criminal. He wasn't a protector of mafia secrets.
Or so I had thought for twenty-six years.
When I reached the ground floor foyer, Luca already had his hand on the heavy brass doorknob. His dark cashmere coat was thrown hastily over his tuxedo.
Michael stood ten feet behind him, his face flushed with panic.
"Luca, you don't know what you're walking into!" Michael shouted, abandoning all his usual calculated calm. "That neighborhood is a dead zone. If you go there tonight without security, you won't come back!"
Luca didn't even turn around. "If you send a single one of your men to follow me, Michael, I will make sure you don't wake up tomorrow morning."
"Mr. Moretti!" I called out, my voice echoing off the marble floor.
Luca stopped. He turned slowly, his dark eyes narrowing as he saw me rushing toward him.
Michael stepped directly into my path. "Go back to the kitchen, Grace. This isn't your concern."
"Move," Luca commanded softly.
Michael hesitated, but the look in his brother's eyes made him step aside.
I stopped two feet from the boss of the Chicago underworld. My chest was heaving. I pulled the photograph Teresa had given me out of my apron and held it out.
Luca looked down at the image of his hidden sister, Catherine, standing beside my father.
"My mother just gave this to me," I said, my voice trembling but clear. "And ten seconds ago, Catherine called my cell phone."
Michael went completely pale.
Vanessa, who had been watching from the dining room archway, dropped her champagne glass. It shattered against the marble floor, but nobody looked at her.
"What did she say?" Luca asked, his voice dead calm.
"She said if you have the key to West Addison, I need to get you away from there. She said there's a man inside who has been waiting twenty years for my family." I took a deep breath. "I'm coming with you."
"No, you aren't," Luca said immediately. "It's too dangerous."
"My father's name is in this," I shot back, surprising myself with my own defiance. "My mother is sick at home, relying on money my father supposedly earned by doing taxes for hardware stores. If he was working for your father, if he was hiding your sister, I have a right to know why he died three years ago."
Luca stared at me. He looked from the photograph to my face, seeing a desperation that mirrored his own.
Without a word, he pushed open the front door. "Keep your head down in the car."
We left Michael standing in the foyer, looking like a man who had just watched his own execution warrant being signed.
The drive to West Addison took twenty minutes in Luca's black SUV. The rain had started to fall, blurring the streetlights into streaks of yellow and red. The neighborhood was quiet, lined with old, brick two-flat houses that looked identical in the dark.
Luca parked two houses down from the address.
He reached into the center console and pulled out a heavy, dark handgun, slipping it into his coat pocket. "Stay behind me."
We walked up the cracked concrete path to the porch. The house looked abandoned. The paint was peeling, and the front windows were covered with thick, dark curtains.
Luca took the brass key Teresa had given him and slid it into the deadbolt.
It turned with a heavy click.
He pushed the door open. The air inside smelled of dust and old cedar.
"Catherine?" Luca called out into the darkness.
There was no answer.
He reached for the wall switch and flicked it. A single dim bulb flickered to life in the hallway.
The house wasn't empty. It was perfectly, meticulously maintained. There was no dust on the console table. A man's heavy wool winter coat hung on the rack near the door.
But it was what sat beneath the coat that made my heart stop.
A pair of worn, brown leather work boots.
They had a distinct, deep scratch across the left toe.
I walked toward them, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I fell to my knees on the hardwood floor, staring at the scratch.
"Grace?" Luca asked, his hand hovering near his pocket. "What is it?"
I looked up at him, the air completely knocked out of my lungs.
"Those are my father's boots," I whispered. "The ones he was wearing the night he supposedly died in a car accident."
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Before Luca could respond, a voice spoke from the shadows at the top of the stairs.
"He didn't die in a car accident, Gracie."
