THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE TRIED TO ERASE HIS PAST, BUT THE JANITOR HELD THE KEY TO HIS EMPIRE

“Lock down the house,” Luca barked, his voice snapping the room into immediate action.

The security chief nodded, reaching for his earpiece. Heavy steel shutters began descending over the massive dining room windows, sealing us inside.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Three SUVs. My mind raced back to my father, lying in his hospital bed across town, oblivious to the storm brewing around his name.

Luca turned to me, his dark eyes intense. “Emma. Why did you look like you saw a ghost when he said Arthur Reed?”

My hands were shaking. I looked from Luca to the tarnished silver key on the table, then to Mr. Callahan.

“Arthur Reed is my father,” I whispered.

Luca froze. Even Mr. Callahan looked surprised, his grip tightening on his wooden cane.

“Your father?” Luca repeated, stepping closer to me. “The man you’ve been working triple shifts to pay medical bills for? That’s Arthur Reed?”

“Yes,” I said, tears of panic threatening to spill. “He had a severe stroke three months ago. He can’t speak. The left side of his body is paralyzed. He never told me he knew your father. He never mentioned the Morettis.”

“He wouldn’t have,” Mr. Callahan said quietly. “After Bellini ruined him, Arthur went into hiding. He changed his career, kept his head down. He did it to protect you, Emma.”

A loud crash echoed from the front of the mansion. The sound of splintering wood and shouting voices. Vanessa’s father wasn’t waiting for tomorrow. He was striking tonight.

“They’re here for the key,” Luca said, his eyes darting to the table. He snatched the silver crescent key and shoved it into his suit pocket. “And they’re here for the letters.”

He grabbed the dented metal lunchbox.

“We can’t stay here,” Luca said, pulling his sidearm from the holster beneath his tailored jacket. He looked at me, his gaze softening for a fraction of a second. “I am not letting Bellini hurt you, Emma. Or your father. We need to get to the hospital.”

“There’s a service elevator in the pantry,” I said quickly, my survival instincts kicking in. “It goes down to the basement garage. Vanessa doesn’t know about it.”

“Lead the way,” Luca ordered.

I grabbed Mr. Callahan’s arm, helping the elderly man move as fast as he could. We slipped through the swinging kitchen doors just as the main dining room doors were kicked open.

Shouts in Italian and heavy footsteps echoed behind us.

We made it to the pantry. I slammed the iron gate of the old service elevator shut and hit the button for the basement. The gears ground loudly as we descended into the dark.

“Bellini is desperate,” Mr. Callahan wheezed, catching his breath. “If he’s attacking your home, Luca, he knows the endgame is near.”

“He doesn’t know I have the key,” Luca said. “But if he figures out Arthur Reed is Emma’s father, he’ll go to the hospital to silence him for good.”

My stomach dropped. “There are no security guards at Chicago General. Anyone could just walk into his room.”

The elevator hit the basement with a thud. Luca’s sleek black Aston Martin was parked near the exit ramp. We piled in. Luca hit the remote for the garage door, and the heavy metal rolled up, revealing the rain-soaked streets of Chicago.

He floored the gas. The car shot out into the night, leaving the chaos of the mansion behind.

The drive to the hospital was a blur of neon lights and screeching tires. I gripped the leather seat, praying we wouldn’t be too late.

“Emma,” Luca said, his voice calm despite the speed. “When your father had his stroke… did it happen at home?”

“Yes,” I said, wiping rain from my face as I looked at him. “He was in his study. Why?”

“Did you find him?”

“No. My neighbor called an ambulance. She said the front door was wide open.”

Luca’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. “Strokes can be natural. But they can also be induced. Certain chemicals, untraceable in standard toxicology screens, mimic the exact symptoms.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “You think… you think Bellini did this to him?”

“I think it’s a hell of a coincidence that the one man who knows where the evidence against Bellini is buried suddenly loses his ability to speak,” Luca said darkly.

We pulled into the emergency parking lot of Chicago General. Luca didn’t bother parking properly; he left the car at the curb and flashed a gold badge to the security guard at the desk, tossing him a hundred-dollar bill.

“Room 412,” I said, leading the way to the elevators.

We rushed down the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallway of the fourth floor. The silence was deafening.

As we approached my father’s room, I noticed the door was slightly ajar.

“Wait,” Luca whispered, pulling me back behind him. He drew his gun, pushing the door open with his foot.

He stepped inside. A second later, he lowered his weapon.

“Emma. Come here.”

I rushed into the room.

My father was lying in his bed, his eyes wide with fear, staring at the ceiling. The heart monitor was beeping rapidly.

But it wasn’t his condition that made me gasp.

The room had been completely ransacked. The drawers were pulled out, his personal belongings scattered across the linoleum floor. His clothes were sliced open.

They had been searching for something.

“Dad!” I cried, rushing to his bedside and grabbing his frail hand. He squeezed my fingers, his eyes darting frantically toward Luca and Mr. Callahan.

Mr. Callahan stepped forward. “Arthur. It’s been a long time.”

My father’s eyes widened even more. He let out a strained, guttural sound, trying desperately to form words that his damaged brain wouldn’t allow. He pointed a trembling finger at his own chest.

At the spot where his crescent key necklace used to rest.

“They were looking for the key,” Luca said, pulling it from his pocket and holding it up. “But Mr. Callahan already had it.”

My father’s eyes locked onto the silver key. A tear slipped down his weathered cheek. He nodded weakly.

Then, with agonizing effort, my father raised his trembling hand and pointed toward a small, framed photograph resting on his bedside table. It was a picture of me when I was seven years old, holding a stuffed bear.

“The picture?” I asked gently.

He shook his head furiously, groaning. He pointed again, jabbing his finger at the frame itself.

Luca walked over and picked up the frame. He turned it over.

The cardboard backing was slightly loose. Luca peeled it back.

Hidden behind my childhood photo was a folded, yellowed piece of parchment paper.

Luca unfolded it.

It was a map. Not of the city, but of a building blueprint.

And scrawled at the top, in Michael Moretti’s unmistakable handwriting, were the words:

“The debts are paid at the old clocktower.”

Before Luca could process the clue, a chilling voice echoed from the doorway of the hospital room.

“Put the map down, Luca. Or I’ll put a bullet in the old man’s other side.”