Chapter 3 - THE SAFE HOUSE
"Move!" Lorenzo roared.
He didn't wait for my answer. He shoved the watch into his own pocket, grabbed my wrist with an iron grip, and dragged me toward the kitchen doors.
Marco was covering our flank, firing precise, deafening shots toward the shattered north exit. I couldn't see Celeste, but I heard her screaming. The men flooding the restaurant weren't aiming for her. They were aiming strictly at the oak pillar we had just vacated.
We slammed through the kitchen doors. Cooks and dishwashers were already scattering, fleeing out the back loading dock. Lorenzo didn't hesitate. He pulled me through a maze of stainless steel prep stations, past the walk-in freezers, and down a narrow concrete stairwell leading to the basement wine cellar.
"In here," he commanded, kicking open a heavy iron door.
We spilled into the damp, dimly lit cellar. Marco was right behind us, slamming the reinforced door shut and throwing a heavy steel deadbolt just as footsteps thundered on the stairs above.
Silence fell, broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing.
I slid down the cold stone wall, hugging my knees to my chest. My hands were shaking so violently I couldn't interlock my fingers. I had just ruined my life. I was going to die in a restaurant basement.
Lorenzo stood in the center of the room, straightening his cuffs as if he hadn't just dodged a dozen bullets. But there was blood on his sleeve.
"You're bleeding," I whispered, my voice echoing in the stone room.
He glanced at the graze on his forearm. "It’s nothing." He turned to Marco. "Status."
"Three shooters dead. We lost Paulie and Vance," Marco said, his face grim. "Celeste is secure with the outer perimeter team. They're extracting her now."
"Call them off," Lorenzo said coldly.
Marco blinked. "Boss?"
"Call them off," Lorenzo repeated, his voice dropping to a lethal calm. "She knew. She was steering me toward the north doors all night."
Marco pulled out his phone, his face hardening. "If she's the leak... we have a major problem. The Vane family is supposed to be our shield against the Feds."
"Make the call. Then find us a clean car in the alley."
As Marco stepped away, Lorenzo turned his full, crushing attention onto me. He walked over slowly, looming over me in the dim light. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver watch by its broken chain. It dangled between us like a pendulum.
"Thomas Carter," Lorenzo said softly.
My breath hitched. "How do you know my father's name?"
"Because this watch belonged to my father," Lorenzo replied, his eyes narrowing. "He gave it to his most trusted accountant twelve years ago. A man who disappeared the night my father was murdered."
My stomach plummeted. "No. My father was a gambler. He ran away from his debts."
"Your father," Lorenzo said, crouching down so we were eye-to-eye, "was the only honest man in Chicago. He was killed because he found out who was stealing from the Moretti family."
My entire world tilted on its axis. Twelve years of resentment, of feeling abandoned, of hating the father who left me to freeze in a broken apartment—it all started to crack.
"He didn't run away?" I choked out, tears suddenly blurring my vision.
"He was trying to save us," Lorenzo said, his voice unusually gentle.
Before I could process the shock, Marco stepped back over, holding a small, blinking black disc in his palm.
"Boss," Marco said, his voice tight. "I just ran a frequency sweep."
May you like
Lorenzo stood up. "And?"
Marco looked at me, a dangerous glint in his eye. "The shooters didn't track Celeste. They tracked her." He pointed the device at my chest. "I just pulled this off the back of the waitress's apron."
