Chapter 4 - THE FADED PHOTOGRAPH
I handed the drawing to Roman.
I watched the color drain completely from his face. The most powerful man in Chicago looked like he had just been physically struck. His hand trembled as his thumb traced the jagged black letters on the back of Lily’s drawing.
“Richard Sterling,” Roman whispered, the words sounding like a death sentence. “He took Tony. He took a seven-year-old girl.”
“Why?” I asked, my voice shaking. “He’s a billionaire. Why would he care about a delivery driver?”
Roman stared at the drawing, his dark eyes hardening into pure, lethal rage. “Because Richard Sterling isn't a billionaire anymore. And Tony isn't just a delivery driver.”
He turned to me, holstering his weapon.
“Tony, Daniel, and Maria,” Roman said, his voice tight. “Ten years ago, they didn't just give me a loan to start my first restaurant. They signed on as silent partners. They own forty percent of DeLuca Enterprises. All eleven restaurants. The real estate. Everything.”
The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity.
“Charlotte didn't hide the invitations because she was embarrassed by them,” I realized, gasping.
“No,” Roman agreed grimly. “She hid them because she and her father are bankrupt. The Sterling family is drowning in hidden debt. They needed my money to survive. But when Richard realized I didn't own my company outright, he knew he couldn't liquidate my assets after the marriage.”
“Unless he forced your partners to sign over their shares,” I finished.
Roman nodded, heading for the door. “We need to get to Daniel and Maria. If Richard took Tony, they’re next.”
We drove to Taylor Street. The rain was falling harder now, washing the neon signs of Little Italy into a blurry smear. We pulled up to the back alley of La Famiglia, Roman’s very first restaurant.
The heavy steel back door was unlocked. Roman pushed it open, his gun drawn.
The kitchen was dark and eerily silent. The smell of garlic and simmering marinara lingered in the air, but the stoves were cold.
“Daniel?” Roman called out into the shadows.
A loud clatter came from the dining room.
Roman rushed through the swinging doors, and I followed close behind.
In the center of the dimly lit dining room, Daniel Ferraro—a burly, fifty-year-old man with a thick beard and a gentle face—was sitting at a corner table. He looked terrified. His wife, Maria, was weeping silently beside him, her hands covering her face.
“Roman,” Daniel choked out, standing up. He looked like he had aged ten years in a single night.
“Daniel, what happened? Where is Tony?” Roman demanded, crossing the room in three long strides.
Daniel shook his head, tears spilling over his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Roman. I’m so sorry. They came an hour ago. Men in expensive suits. They had guns.”
“Did they hurt you?” Roman asked, checking Daniel for injuries.
“No. But they forced Maria and me to sign the transfer papers. We gave them our shares, Roman. We gave them everything.” Daniel broke down, sobbing into his hands. “They said if we didn't sign, they were going to kill Tony and little Lily.”
Roman pulled the older man into a fierce embrace. “You did the right thing. The money doesn't matter. Only family matters. Do you know where they took them?”
Daniel pulled back, wiping his eyes. “The man in charge... Richard Sterling. He left a message for you.”
Daniel reached into his pocket with trembling hands.
He pulled out a faded, crinkled photograph and handed it to Roman.
I leaned in to look. It was an old Polaroid picture of a beautiful Italian woman holding a baby. Roman’s mother.
But the photograph had been brutally defaced. Someone had taken a red marker and drawn a violent X over his mother’s face.
Roman stopped breathing.
“Richard said,” Daniel whispered, his voice trembling, “that if you want to see Tony and Lily alive, you have to bring the pawn ticket to the old waterfront warehouse at midnight. And you have to come alone.”
Roman stared at the defaced picture of his late mother. The grief and rage radiating from him were palpable.
But my eyes were fixed on the photograph for a completely different reason.
I had spent my entire life working in kitchens and diners. I knew the signs of cheap ink, grease stains, and specific paper textures.
I reached out and gently touched the corner of the Polaroid.
“Mr. DeLuca,” I whispered, my heart pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears.
May you like
“What is it, Grace?” Roman asked, his voice dead and hollow.
“Richard Sterling didn't write on this picture,” I said, looking up into his dark, grief-stricken eyes. “Because the red ink on this photograph... isn't marker. It’s industrial meat-marking dye. The kind only used by the Moretti Syndicate.”
