Chapter 3 - THE GHOSTS IN PILSEN
Lorenzo’s grip on my wrist didn’t loosen until he shoved me into the backseat of a stolen black sedan.
He vaulted into the driver’s seat, slamming the car into gear before the passenger door even shut. The tires screamed against the icy asphalt as we tore out of the alley, narrowly dodging the gunfire from Celeste’s men. Bullets sparked against the brick walls behind us.
I curled into a ball in the backseat, burying my face in my knees, sobbing uncontrollably.
My father.
Arthur Carter is dead.
I had spent fourteen years telling myself he was sitting at a blackjack table in Vegas, or hiding out in Mexico, or too ashamed of his gambling debts to come home to his little girl. I had spent fourteen years waiting for the rusty lock on my apartment door to click open.
Hearing the truth out loud, from the mouth of a mafia boss, felt like a physical blow to the stomach.
Lorenzo drove like a madman, weaving through the tight, snow-packed streets of Chicago’s industrial district. He didn't speak. His eyes constantly flicked to the rearview mirror. His jaw was set like granite. The only sound in the car was the roaring heater and my fractured breathing.
After thirty minutes of violent turns to shake any tails, we crossed into Pilsen. The neighborhood was quiet, lined with old brick two-flats and fading murals. Lorenzo pulled the car into a narrow, snow-filled alley and killed the engine.
“Get out,” he commanded quietly.
I stumbled out of the car, my legs feeling like lead. The wind off Lake Michigan cut through my thin waitress blouse. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering so hard my teeth clicked.
Lorenzo unlocked a rusted iron gate leading to the basement of a run-down bakery. It looked abandoned. The windows were boarded up.
“Move,” he said, pushing me gently but firmly down the concrete steps.
He unlocked the heavy steel door, and we stepped inside.
I expected a dungeon. I expected a cold, windowless room filled with weapons or stolen money.
Instead, the lights flickered on to reveal a warm, brightly lit apartment. There were plush rugs on the floor. A television playing cartoons on mute. And the smell of warm milk and honey.
Before I could process the surreal change in environment, a small voice broke the silence.
“Uncle Enzo?”
I turned. Standing in the hallway was a little boy. He couldn’t have been older than six. He was wearing oversized dinosaur pajamas and clutching a small wooden train in his hands. He had Lorenzo’s dark hair, but his eyes were wide, soft, and terrified.
Lorenzo dropped his gun onto the kitchen counter. The ruthless, terrifying mafia boss I had seen execute two men twenty minutes ago vanished.
He dropped to one knee, opening his arms.
“Hey, buddy,” Lorenzo said, his voice incredibly soft. “I told you to stay in bed, didn’t I?”
The boy ran to him, burying his face in Lorenzo’s neck. “I heard the door. I got scared.”
“I know. I’m sorry I woke you.” Lorenzo wrapped his massive arms around the child, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He closed his eyes, and for a second, I saw the crushing weight of the world resting on this man’s shoulders.
I stood near the door, completely frozen.
This was the monster of Chicago? This was the man the newspapers called a ruthless butcher?
“Who is she?” the boy whispered, peaking at me over Lorenzo’s shoulder.
“Her name is Evie,” Lorenzo said, standing up and lifting the boy into his arms. “She’s a friend. Evie, this is Leo. My nephew.”
Lorenzo carried Leo back down the hallway, murmuring soft Italian words to him until a bedroom door clicked shut.
I was left alone in the living room. My mind was spinning violently. Celeste’s text message played in my head again. North exit secured. Cleaners in position.
If Lorenzo had taken that exit, he would be dead. And this little boy would be left alone in a basement, waiting for an uncle who was never coming back.
Celeste didn’t just want Lorenzo dead. She wanted everything he protected gone.
I started pacing the room to keep warm. As I walked past a heavy oak desk in the corner, I noticed the drawer was slightly open. Inside, a stack of old files was illuminated by the desk lamp.
My father was a gambler. He was a thief when he had to be. And because he was a thief, he had taught me how to look at things people wanted hidden.
I shouldn't have touched it. But the name printed on the tab of the top file stopped the breath in my lungs.
VANE - FINANCIALS. 2012.
Celeste’s family name. The year my father disappeared.
My shaking fingers reached out and pulled the file open. Inside was a ledger. Columns of numbers, bank transfers, wire receipts. It made no sense to me.
But beneath the ledger was a photograph.
I pulled it out into the light.
It was a Polaroid, faded at the edges. In the photo stood two men in an office, shaking hands over a desk covered in money.
The man on the right was Richard Vane, Celeste’s father. The wealthy, respected Chicago aristocrat.
The man on the left, looking exhausted, wearing a cheap suit and a silver chronometer watch on his wrist, was my father. Arthur Carter.
“He wasn’t just a gambler,” Lorenzo’s voice came from the shadows of the hallway.
I gasped, dropping the photo onto the desk.
Lorenzo walked slowly into the room. He had taken off his suit jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a dark bruise blooming on his neck.
“Your father wasn’t a degenerate, Evie,” Lorenzo said softly, looking at the photo. “He was an accountant. And a brilliant one. He worked for the Vane family.”
“No,” I whispered, stepping back. “He was a drunk. He lost our rent money. He abandoned me.”
“He lost your rent money playing poker to make it look like he was a degenerate,” Lorenzo corrected, his eyes locking onto mine. “It was a cover. He found out Richard Vane was stealing millions from the Moretti family’s construction unions. Your father was cooking the books to hide it. But when he tried to back out to protect you, the Vanes didn’t let him walk away.”
Tears blurred my vision. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” Lorenzo said gently. He reached out and tapped the silver watch on my wrist. “My father gave him that watch as a thank you. Arthur came to us. He tried to whistle-blow on the Vanes. He promised to give us the ledger proving Richard Vane was stealing the money. But the Vanes found out.”
I couldn’t breathe. Fourteen years of hatred for my father. Fourteen years of feeling worthless, discarded, abandoned.
He didn’t leave me. He died trying to protect me.
“Where is the ledger?” I asked, my voice cracking.
Before Lorenzo could answer, a deafening crash shook the walls of the basement.
The iron gate upstairs had just been ripped off its hinges. Heavy footsteps pounded on the concrete stairs.
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“They tracked the car,” Lorenzo hissed, his eyes going wide. He lunged for the gun on the counter. “Get Leo. Now!”
I didn’t think. I just ran. I threw open the bedroom door, scooped the terrified little boy into my arms, and bolted for the back door just as the front door blew open in a shower of splinters and gunfire.
