Chapter 3 - THE WATCHMAKER’s SECRET
The concrete room felt as if it were shrinking.
Evelyn stared at Lorenzo Moretti, the bare bulb above casting long, jagged shadows across his bruised face. The words he had just spoken echoed in her mind, refusing to make sense.
My father was the one hiding him.
“You’re lying,” Evelyn choked out, stepping back until her spine pressed hard against the cold, damp brick. “Everyone in Cicero knows what happened. My father owed money to your family. He couldn't pay. So the Morettis made him disappear.”
Lorenzo didn’t step toward her. He kept his distance, his hands open, palms facing her in a rare gesture of surrender.
“People in Cicero know what my father wanted them to know,” Lorenzo said gently, his voice devoid of the sharp edge it had held in the restaurant. “Thomas Carter was a gambler, yes. He owed us a significant amount of money. But Thomas was also the most brilliant numbers man in the Midwest.”
Evelyn felt a tear hot against her cheek. “He was an addict. He lost our house. He lost everything.”
“He was working off his debt by cooking the books for the Vane family,” Lorenzo corrected. “Celeste’s father, Arthur Vane, hired him to launder millions through the union pensions. But your father found something else in those ledgers. Something that terrified him so much he came to my father for protection.”
Evelyn shook her head violently. “No. No, he left me. He packed a bag in the middle of the night and left me with my aunt. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.”
“He cared about you enough to know that if Arthur Vane found him, they would kill you too,” Lorenzo stated. “My father smuggled Thomas out of Chicago ten years ago. We gave him a new name. A new life in Montreal.”
The breath rushed out of Evelyn’s lungs. “He’s alive?”
Lorenzo’s dark eyes dropped. The silence stretched between them, heavy and mourning.
“He was,” Lorenzo said softly. “Until three weeks ago. Arthur Vane’s men finally found him. They tortured him for two days, looking for whatever he stole from them ten years ago. Then, they killed him.”
A sob broke from Evelyn’s throat. Ten years of anger, of resentment, of believing she was abandoned, collapsed into a pile of ash in her chest. Her father hadn't run from his debts. He had run to save her. And he had died protecting a secret.
Lorenzo took a slow step forward. “Evelyn. I need to know what he left you.”
“Nothing!” she cried, tears blurring her vision. “He left me nothing! A pile of unpaid bills and a broken heart. I don't have whatever Celeste is looking for!”
Before Lorenzo could press further, a heavy metallic clang echoed from the steel door leading to the street. Someone was trying to pry it open from the outside.
Lorenzo instantly pushed Evelyn behind him, his gun raised. “We have to move. Now.”
He shoved the steel door open, pulling Evelyn out into the freezing Chicago night. The alley was dark, smelling of wet asphalt and garbage. A sleek black town car was idling halfway down the block.
“My men,” Lorenzo said. He grabbed her hand again, and they ran.
They scrambled into the backseat just as shouts erupted from the alley behind them. Tires squealed, and the car shot out into the avenue, leaving the burning chaos of The Obsidian behind.
Thirty minutes later, the car pulled through the heavy iron gates of a massive stone estate on the North Shore. It looked less like a home and more like a fortress.
Lorenzo led Evelyn inside. The house was beautiful but silent, filled with dark wood, heavy velvet curtains, and the lingering scent of old money.
“Where are we?” Evelyn asked, hugging her arms tightly.
“My safe house,” Lorenzo said, slipping off his suit jacket and tossing it over a leather armchair. “No one knows this address except the men I trust with my life.”
“Uncle Enzo!”
Evelyn flinched at the sudden sound.
A small boy, no older than six, came running down the grand mahogany staircase in a pair of oversized pajamas. He had a mop of dark curls and large, expressive brown eyes that instantly locked onto Lorenzo.
The ruthless mafia boss’s entire demeanor shifted. The coldness evaporated. Lorenzo dropped to one knee, catching the boy in his arms and holding him tight.
“Hey, Leo,” Lorenzo whispered, pressing a kiss into the boy’s curls. “What are you doing up? It’s past midnight.”
“I heard the cars,” Leo mumbled, rubbing his eyes. He peered over Lorenzo’s shoulder and saw Evelyn standing awkwardly by the door, covered in dust and dried blood. “Who is she?”
Lorenzo stood up, keeping a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is Evelyn. She’s a friend. Evelyn, this is my nephew, Leo.”
Evelyn offered a shaky, gentle smile. “Hi, Leo.”
Leo didn't smile back. He looked at her torn apron, then at Lorenzo’s bruised face. “Are the bad men coming again?” he asked, his tiny voice cracking.
Evelyn felt a pang in her chest. She knew that look. It was the look of a child who had seen too much, too soon.
“No,” Lorenzo said firmly. “No bad men are coming here.”
He signaled to an older woman waiting at the top of the stairs—the nanny. She hurried down and gently guided Leo back up to bed.
Once the boy was gone, the silence returned.
“His parents were killed two years ago,” Lorenzo said, staring up the empty staircase. “A car bomb meant for me. I promised him he would never have to be afraid again. But as long as Celeste Vane is alive, neither of us is safe.”
He turned back to Evelyn.
“Thomas Carter didn't leave you empty-handed, Evelyn. I know it. When he came to my father, he said he had hidden the leverage. He said if anything ever happened to him, his daughter held the key.”
Evelyn shook her head exhaustedly. “Lorenzo, I swear to you. I have nothing. The only thing I have of his is a stupid, broken pocket watch that hasn't ticked since I was twelve.”
Lorenzo’s eyes locked onto hers. The air in the room suddenly felt electric.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
Evelyn reached into her apron pocket. She pulled out the heavy, tarnished brass pocket watch attached to a frayed leather strap. “I carry it for luck. Not that it’s ever brought me any.”
Lorenzo took the watch from her palm. He didn't look at the face. He flipped it over.
His long fingers traced the smooth brass casing on the back. He pressed his thumb against a tiny, almost invisible notch near the hinge, and pushed.
With a sharp click, the back of the watch popped open.
Evelyn gasped, stepping closer.
There were no gears inside. The internal mechanism had been entirely hollowed out.
Lying perfectly flat inside the brass casing was a small, uniquely cut silver key.
And etched onto the inside of the watch cover was a single sequence of numbers: Box 814. Union Station.
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Lorenzo looked up at Evelyn, his dark eyes burning with sudden, dangerous hope.
“Your father didn't abandon you, Evelyn,” Lorenzo whispered. “He left you a weapon.”
