Chapter 8 - THE KITCHEN BRIGADE
The sight was so absurd, so entirely unexpected, that for a split second, Roman didn't lower his weapon.
Daniel stood at the front of the pack, holding a massive, terrifyingly sharp butcher’s knife. Behind him was Maria, gripping a heavy rolling pin. The rest of the crowd was Roman’s entire kitchen staff from La Famiglia and his other downtown restaurants. Dishwashers, line cooks, prep chefs, and servers.
“Daniel?” Roman asked, slowly lowering his gun. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Daniel stepped into the apartment, his face flushed with adrenaline. “Tony’s wife called us. She said Tony was taken. She tracked his phone before Richard’s men smashed it. We went to the waterfront, but the cops were already pulling Richard out of the building. Charlotte was screaming that you tried to murder her father.”
Maria pushed past her husband, her eyes wide with panic. “Roman, Charlotte gave the police this address! She knew about the safe house! She told the cops you have the laundering ledger and that you’re the head of the syndicate!”
My stomach dropped. Charlotte wasn't just trying to save her father. She was framing Roman for all of the Sterling family's crimes. If the police found Roman here with the stolen ledger and a gunshot wound, he would go to prison forever, and the Sterlings would walk away clean as victims.
“We have to move,” Roman said, turning to me. “Get Tony and Lily.”
“It’s too late,” Daniel said grimly, looking out the window.
I ran to the glass and looked down at the street. Red and blue police lights were flooding the alleyway. Five squad cars were blocking the exits.
“They’re coming up the stairs,” Daniel said, gripping his butcher knife tighter. The kitchen crew behind him murmured, raising their improvised weapons.
“No!” Roman barked, stepping in front of them. “Put the weapons down. All of you. You are honest people. I will not let you go to jail for assaulting police officers to protect me.”
“You protected us for ten years, Roman,” Maria cried, tears streaming down her face. “We aren't leaving you to take the fall for those rich monsters!”
Roman turned to me. His eyes were desperate. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the crumpled Moretti laundering ledger, and shoved it into my hands.
“Grace, listen to me,” Roman said, his voice urgent. “When the police come through that door, I’m going to surrender. I’ll distract them. You take the ledger, slip out the fire escape with Tony and Lily, and take this directly to the FBI field office downtown. Do not give it to the local cops. Richard owns half of them.”
“I’m not leaving you!” I cried, gripping his shirt.
“You have to,” Roman pleaded, kissing my forehead—a brief, searing contact that made my heart shatter. “Save Lily. Save my family.”
Loud, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.
“Chicago PD! Open the door!”
Roman raised his hands, preparing to take the fall.
I looked down at the ledger in my hands. The paper was thick, old, and stained. My mind raced. Charlotte was telling the police that Roman was the mastermind. The ledger proved Vincenzo Moretti was the boss, but how could I prove Charlotte and Richard were the ones working with him?
Then, I remembered the very first thing that started this entire nightmare.
The engagement invitations.
“Wait,” I gasped.
I unzipped the small pouch of my apron, which I was still inexplicably wearing over my wet clothes. I pulled out the torn envelope I had kept since the ballroom. Tony’s envelope.
I ripped the rest of the envelope open.
“Grace, what are you doing?” Roman asked as the police began battering the door.
I looked at the thick, cream-colored paper of the envelope. I held it up to the light.
“The Sterlings use custom, watermarked stationary for all their events,” I said, my voice trembling with sudden realization. “I heard Charlotte bragging about it to the event planner. It has the Sterling family crest pressed directly into the paper.”
Roman frowned, not understanding.
I grabbed the heavy parchment of the Moretti laundering ledger. I held it up to the light next to the envelope.
“Look,” I breathed.
Roman stared at the ledger.
Faintly, but unmistakably, pressed into the thick fibers of the paper Vincenzo Moretti used to track his millions... was the exact same Sterling family crest watermark.
Richard Sterling hadn't just owed Moretti money. Richard’s paper mills were supplying the syndicate. They were business partners. The ledger itself was the physical proof tying the billionaire to the mafia boss.
The door violently crashed open.
Ten heavily armed police officers swarmed into the room, their weapons drawn.
“Nobody move! Hands in the air!” the lead detective shouted.
Behind the police, looking perfectly manicured despite the rain, stepped Charlotte. She pointed a shaking, dramatic finger at Roman.
“There he is, officers!” Charlotte cried. “He’s a monster! He shot my father and forced me to watch! He’s the head of the syndicate!”
The detective moved to cuff Roman.
“Stop!” I shouted, stepping directly between Roman and the police, holding the ledger and the torn envelope high in the air.
The room froze.
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“Miss,” the detective warned, his hand on his holster. “Step away from the suspect.”
“My name is Grace Miller,” I said, my voice ringing clear and steady across the silent room. “And I have the physical evidence that proves Richard and Charlotte Sterling are the chief financial launderers for the Moretti Crime Syndicate.”
