Chapter 5 - THE PRICE OF BLOOD
The words bleeding through the radio static paralyzed the air in the train station corridor.
I have the boy.
Lorenzo’s entire body went rigid. The tactical, cold-blooded mob boss Evelyn had seen taking down armed men hours earlier vanished. In his place was a man violently stripped of his armor, exposed and bleeding.
Leo. They had Leo.
Evelyn clutched her mother’s diary to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She remembered the little boy on the stairs, his large brown eyes fearful, asking if the bad men were coming back. Lorenzo had promised him he was safe.
Gilbert smirked, keeping his weapon trained on the floor where Lorenzo and Evelyn were pinned behind the row of metal lockers.
“You hear that, Moretti?” Gilbert called out, his voice dripping with sudden, arrogant confidence. “The safe house wasn’t so safe after all. Toss the gun out. Then slide the box across the floor.”
“How did you find him, Gilbert?” Lorenzo demanded, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.
“I’ve been on Vane’s payroll for three years, Lorenzo,” Gilbert sneered. “You think you’re untouchable because people fear you. But people like Arthur Vane buy the men who pour your wine. I put a tracker in your coat at the restaurant.”
Evelyn looked at the black trench coat she was wearing. Lorenzo’s coat. The betrayal cut deep. Gilbert, the man who had scolded her about uniform standards, the man she had worked beside for nine months, was the one who had sold them out.
“If you touch one hair on that boy’s head,” Lorenzo said, his grip on his weapon turning his knuckles white, “I will dismantle you piece by piece.”
“I’m not touching anyone. That’s up to Celeste,” Gilbert replied smoothly. “Now. The gun. Out.”
Lorenzo looked at Evelyn. His dark eyes were utterly hollowed by desperation. He was a man who possessed limitless power in Chicago, yet in this moment, he was entirely powerless. He would trade his life, his empire, his entire world for his nephew.
Slowly, deliberately, Lorenzo slid his handgun across the linoleum floor. It spun to a stop near Gilbert’s boots.
“Stand up. Both of you,” Gilbert ordered.
Lorenzo stood slowly, raising his hands. Evelyn followed, her legs shaking so violently she thought she might collapse. She kept the diary pressed tight against her stomach, hidden beneath the oversized folds of Lorenzo’s coat.
“Where’s the ledger?” Gilbert asked, stepping closer, his men fanning out to cover all angles of the corridor.
“There is no ledger,” Evelyn said, her voice trembling but surprisingly loud. “My father didn’t steal money. He stole proof.”
Gilbert frowned. “Proof of what?”
“Proof that Arthur Vane is a murderer,” Lorenzo answered coldly.
Gilbert hesitated. He didn’t know. Celeste had used him as a pawn, telling him they were looking for financial blackmail, not a murder confession.
“Check the locker,” Gilbert snapped at one of his men.
The man moved forward, peering into the empty metal box. “It’s empty, Gil. Nothing in it.”
Gilbert’s eyes narrowed, landing on Evelyn. He saw the unnatural bulk beneath the heavy wool coat.
“Take it off,” Gilbert demanded, aiming the pistol directly at Evelyn’s chest.
Lorenzo shifted, stepping slightly in front of her. “She has nothing.”
“Move, Moretti, or I shoot her right now and let Celeste deal with the kid,” Gilbert threatened.
Evelyn’s breath hitched. She couldn't let Lorenzo die for this. She couldn't let Leo die for a ten-year-old secret.
“Okay,” Evelyn whispered. “Okay, I’ll give it to you.”
She reached under the coat, her fingers wrapping around the thick leather binding of her mother’s diary. But as her hand brushed the interior pocket of Lorenzo’s coat, she felt something else.
Cold, heavy metal.
A backup weapon.
Lorenzo hadn't just carried one gun. He was a man who built escape tunnels; he always had a contingency.
Evelyn didn't know how to shoot. She had never held a gun in her life. But she remembered the waitress tray. She remembered balancing a tray of eight crystal champagne glasses while navigating a crowded room of unpredictable, drunk politicians. Balance. Timing. Misdirection.
She pulled the diary out slowly with her left hand, holding it up.
Gilbert’s eyes locked onto the leather book. Greed flashed across his face.
“Toss it,” he commanded.
Evelyn threw the diary, but she didn’t throw it at his feet. She threw it hard, directly at Gilbert’s face.
Instinctively, Gilbert raised his hands to catch it, his weapon dipping for a fraction of a second.
In that exact millisecond, Evelyn plunged her right hand into the coat pocket, drew the heavy, snub-nosed revolver, and shoved it directly into Lorenzo’s waiting hand.
Lorenzo moved faster than the human eye could track.
Three deafening shots echoed through the corridor.
Gilbert’s men hit the floor before they even registered the movement.
Gilbert stumbled backward, the diary hitting his chest. Lorenzo crossed the distance in two massive strides, grabbing Gilbert by the throat and slamming him brutally against the metal lockers.
Lorenzo jammed the barrel of the revolver directly under Gilbert’s chin.
“Where is my nephew?” Lorenzo roared, the sound tearing from his chest like a wounded animal.
Gilbert gasped, choking, his eyes rolling back in terror. “The... the old railyard... South Side...” he wheezed. “Celeste took him there. She’s... she’s setting you up, Lorenzo.”
“Setting me up for what?”
“She doesn’t want the book just to protect her father,” Gilbert choked out, blood trickling from his nose. “She wants to give the ledger to the Feds. She’s going to trade her father’s crimes for immunity, and frame you for the massacre at The Obsidian. She wants to take down both families and walk away clean.”
Evelyn picked up her mother’s diary from the floor. Her hands were shaking, but a profound, icy clarity washed over her. Celeste Vane had orchestrated the murder of Evelyn’s mother, the destruction of her father, and now the framing of Lorenzo Moretti.
From the distance, the shrill wail of police sirens began to echo through the train station. But they didn't sound like standard CPD cruisers. They were heavy, synchronized.
“Those aren't real cops,” Gilbert whispered, a sick smile touching his lips despite the gun at his throat. “Those are Vane’s men. They’re here to clean this up.”
Lorenzo cracked the butt of his gun against Gilbert’s temple. The manager slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Lorenzo turned to Evelyn. He reached out, grabbing her by the shoulders.
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice urgent, desperate. “They are going to lock this building down in sixty seconds. You have the diary. You are the only one who can prove Arthur Vane murdered your mother. You have to run.”
“I’m not leaving you!” Evelyn cried, gripping his arms.
“You have to,” Lorenzo pleaded, a single tear breaking free and tracking down his bruised cheek. “If I stay, I can hold them off. I can buy you time. Evelyn, please. Hide. And when it’s clear... go to the railyard. Save my boy.”
Before Evelyn could protest, Lorenzo pushed her violently toward the maintenance exit doors.
May you like
“Go!” he roared, turning back to face the corridor as the heavy thud of tactical boots echoed from the main hall.
Evelyn shoved through the maintenance doors, clutching the diary and Lorenzo’s coat, plunging into the freezing, snow-covered alleys of Chicago alone.
