Chapter 5 - THE PAWN SHOP CONFESSION
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Moretti.
Daniel gasped, taking a step back, pulling his wife closer. Roman’s head snapped up, his dark eyes locking onto mine with terrifying intensity.
“How do you know about meat-marking dye?” Roman demanded.
“My father worked as a butcher in the Meatpacking District before he became a line cook,” I explained, my voice remarkably steady despite the fear pooling in my stomach. “I used to help him clean his aprons. That deep crimson color... it doesn't wash out, and it smells faintly of ammonia. Smell the photograph.”
Roman lifted the Polaroid to his face. His jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter.
“She’s right,” Roman whispered.
He threw the photograph onto the table, his mind racing, putting the pieces together. “The Sterlings aren't just bankrupt. They owe money to the Moretti family. Vincenzo Moretti has been trying to take over my territory for five years. He couldn't beat me on the street, so he bought the Sterlings’ debt and used Charlotte to infiltrate my life.”
“Roman,” Daniel pleaded, his voice cracking. “If Moretti has Tony and Lily... they’re dead. You know how Vincenzo operates.”
“They aren't dead yet,” Roman said. “Moretti needs that pawn ticket.”
Roman pulled the yellow slip of paper from his pocket. He stared at it. “My grandfather’s watch. Why does Moretti want a silver watch so badly that he’d risk a war to get it?”
“We need to find out what’s inside that watch,” I said.
Roman looked at me, a flicker of admiration cutting through his anger. He checked his heavy steel wristwatch. “It’s 10:00 PM. The pawn shop listed on this ticket is in the South Side. It closed hours ago.”
“Then we break in,” I said.
Roman stared at me. “Grace, you don’t have to do this. I can give you cash right now. You can leave the city, start over somewhere safe.”
“My dad was fired two weeks before his pension vested because a rich man decided he was disposable,” I said, lifting my chin, meeting the mafia boss’s gaze without flinching. “I am sick of rich men treating people like garbage. Tony and Lily are innocent. I’m going with you.”
Roman studied my face for a long moment. Then, the corner of his mouth lifted in a grim, dangerous smile. “Let’s go.”
We drove to the South Side in silence. The pawn shop was a gritty, iron-barred storefront sandwiched between a liquor store and an abandoned laundromat. The rain was relentless, hiding us in the shadows.
Roman pulled a set of lock picks from his glove compartment. Within sixty seconds, the heavy deadbolt clicked, and we slipped inside the dark, dusty shop.
The air smelled of old brass and despair.
“The ticket says bin 402,” Roman whispered, clicking on a small penlight.
We moved behind the heavy glass counter. I scanned the wooden cubbies lining the back wall.
“Here,” I pointed.
Roman reached into the cubby and pulled out a heavy, intricately engraved silver pocket watch. The DeLuca family crest was etched into the casing.
Roman pressed the latch. The watch popped open.
The hands were frozen at 3:15. But Roman didn't care about the time. He pulled his pocket knife and gently pried the back casing of the watch off.
A small, folded piece of thick parchment fell onto the glass counter.
Roman unfolded it. He shined his penlight on the paper.
It was a ledger. A list of offshore bank accounts, routing numbers, and massive sums of money.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It’s Vincenzo Moretti’s private laundering ledger,” Roman breathed, utter shock washing over his face. “If the FBI got their hands on this, the entire Moretti syndicate would go to federal prison for the rest of their lives.”
“But how did it get into Tony’s watch?” I asked.
Before Roman could answer, the bell above the pawn shop door jingled.
The front door had been kicked open.
Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the streetlights, was a massive man in a wet trench coat. A deep, jagged scar ran down the side of his neck.
I recognized him instantly. I had served him champagne at the engagement party not three hours ago. He was the man Charlotte had been whispering to in the corner.
“Well, well,” the scarred man chuckled, drawing a suppressed pistol. “Charlotte said you were smart, DeLuca. But breaking into a pawn shop yourself? That’s just sad.”
Roman stepped in front of me, shielding me with his body. “Where is Tony, Marcus?”
“Tony is tied to a chair in the waterfront warehouse, bleeding all over my nice concrete floor,” Marcus sneered. “And the little girl is crying her eyes out. Now, slide the ledger across the glass, and maybe I’ll shoot you quick.”
Roman’s hand hovered near his shoulder holster. But Marcus had the drop on us. If Roman moved, we were both dead.
Suddenly, I noticed the heavy glass display case next to my hip. It was filled with cheap, discarded jewelry, but on the top shelf sat a massive, antique brass cash register.
I didn't think. I just acted.
I planted my foot against the glass shelf and shoved with every ounce of strength I had.
The heavy glass shattered. The massive brass register tipped backward, crashing onto the floor with a deafening, metallic explosion that sounded like a bomb going off in the quiet shop.
Marcus flinched, startled by the sheer noise, his gun wavering for a fraction of a second.
It was all Roman needed.
Roman drew his weapon and fired twice.
Marcus dropped his gun, clutching his shoulder, and fell backward into the rainy street.
Roman grabbed my hand. “Run!”
We sprinted out the back door into the alley, the rain soaking us instantly. We didn't stop until we reached the SUV hidden two blocks away.
We slammed the doors shut, gasping for air.
Roman looked at me, his chest heaving, his dark eyes wide with adrenaline. “You just saved my life.”
“You’re welcome,” I panted.
Roman looked down at the ledger in his hand. He flipped it over.
May you like
On the back of the parchment, written in a frantic, hurried scrawl, was a note.
“Roman. If you find this, they took us. Charlotte’s father didn't just sell you out to Moretti. He’s the one who ordered the hit on your mentor ten years ago.”
