Chapter 4 - THE KEY AND THE BULLET
The sound of the door blowing inward was like a bomb detonating in the small basement. Dust and wood splinters filled the air, choking my lungs.
I had Leo pressed tight against my chest. The little boy wasn't crying; he was completely silent, his small fingers digging into my shoulders with terrifying strength. He had been trained for this. He knew exactly what it meant when the doors broke.
"Out the back! Go!" Lorenzo roared over the deafening cracks of gunfire.
He didn't take cover. He stepped directly into the hallway, raising his weapon and firing a suppressing volley toward the front door. The muzzle flashes lit up the dark apartment like violent strobe lights.
I kicked open the heavy metal door at the back of the bedroom. The freezing Chicago wind whipped my hair across my face as we spilled out into a narrow, garbage-strewn alley. My waitress shoes slipped on the black ice, but I caught my balance against a frozen brick wall, clutching Leo tighter.
"Keep your head down, baby," I whispered frantically, pressing his face into my neck.
Seconds later, Lorenzo burst through the door behind us. The moment he cleared the threshold, a bullet struck the metal doorframe. Sparks rained down onto his shoulder.
Lorenzo flinched violently, a sharp grunt escaping his lips, but his momentum carried him forward. He grabbed my arm with his uninjured hand and hauled me down the alley.
"Don't stop!" he shouted, blood already blooming through the white fabric of his shirt.
We ran.
My lungs burned with the cold. Every shadow looked like a hitman. Every passing car sounded like a getaway vehicle. We wove through a maze of chain-link fences and dark, abandoned lots. Lorenzo was breathing heavily, his pace slowing with every step. The dark stain on his shoulder was spreading, soaking the sleeve of his shirt in thick, wet red.
Finally, we reached a rusted-out Ford pickup truck tucked beneath a graffiti-covered overpass. Lorenzo dug the keys out of his pocket with shaking fingers. He managed to unlock it, shoving me and Leo into the cab.
He climbed into the driver's seat, his face ghostly pale in the dim streetlights. He turned the ignition. The old engine sputtered, coughed, and finally roared to life.
We drove in silence for ten minutes, heading toward the derelict outskirts of the South Side. Leo was tucked under my arm, shivering violently. I pulled my thin coat off and wrapped it around him.
I looked over at Lorenzo. His eyes were half-closed. His hands were slipping on the steering wheel. The blood was dripping down his arm and pooling on the vinyl seat.
"Lorenzo, you're bleeding out," I panicked, my voice shrill. "We need a hospital."
"No hospitals," he ground out, his teeth clenched in agony. "Celeste owns half the police force and three of the trauma chiefs. If I walk into an ER, I'll be dead before the anesthesia hits."
"Then where are we going?"
"There's a motel. Two miles down." He swallowed hard, his head lolling back against the headrest for a second before he forced it upright.
He reached into his blood-soaked pocket with his good hand. He pulled out something small and heavy, pressing it into my palm.
I looked down. It was a thick, brass key. It looked incredibly old, stamped with the numbers 404.
"What is this?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"The ledger," Lorenzo breathed, his eyes staying fixed on the road, though they were fighting to stay open. "Your father... he hid it before the Vanes caught him. He mailed this key to my father the day he died. We've been looking for the lockbox for fourteen years."
I stared at the brass key. It felt heavy in my hand. Heavier than metal. It felt like fourteen years of grief, fourteen years of believing my father was a coward.
"Did you find it?" I whispered.
"Last week," Lorenzo rasped. "I found out where Arthur hid it. I was going to get it tonight. After the dinner."
A horrific realization washed over me. "Celeste knew. She knew you found it."
"Yes." Lorenzo gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. "If that ledger gets into the hands of the Mob Commission, the Vane family is finished. They owe millions to the Chicago families. They’ve been hiding their bankruptcy by stealing from us. Celeste didn't agree to marry me for peace. She married me to get close enough to kill me, wipe out the Moretti bloodline, and inherit my territory to pay her family's debts."
He looked at Leo, asleep against my side. A look of profound, devastating sorrow crossed his face.
"She wants the boy dead, too," Lorenzo whispered. "He's the last Moretti heir. If we die, Celeste takes it all."
The truck swerved slightly. Lorenzo’s eyes rolled back.
"Lorenzo!" I screamed, grabbing the steering wheel from the passenger side to keep us from crashing into a parked car.
He blinked hard, shaking his head. "If I don't make it, Evie. Take Leo. Take the key. Go to the Greyhound station downtown. Locker 404. Get the ledger and take it to the FBI. Promise me."
"You're not going to die!" I yelled, tears streaming down my face. "Pull over! Let me drive!"
He slammed on the brakes, pulling the truck into the dark parking lot of a roach-infested motel with a flickering neon vacancy sign. The moment the car shifted into park, Lorenzo’s head slumped forward against the steering wheel.
He was out cold.
"Hey! Hey!" I shook his shoulder. He didn't move.
Panic seized my chest. I looked at the little boy sleeping next to me. I looked at the bleeding, unconscious mafia boss. I looked at the brass key in my hand.
I was a waitress. I lived paycheck to paycheck. I didn't know how to fight assassins, and I certainly didn't know how to save a dying man.
But as I looked at the blood on Lorenzo's shirt, I remembered the photo of my father. My father died trying to do the right thing. He died trying to protect this family.
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I wasn't going to let his sacrifice mean nothing.
I shoved the brass key deep into my pocket. I climbed over the center console, shoved Lorenzo's heavy body into the passenger seat, and threw the truck back into gear.
