Chapter 6 - THE GHOSTS OF CICERO
The biting Chicago wind cut through Evelyn’s bones, but she didn’t stop running.
She sprinted through the labyrinth of icy alleyways behind Union Station, the heavy wool of Lorenzo’s coat wrapping her in a desperate warmth. Behind her, the sharp, staccato pop-pop-pop of gunfire echoed into the night sky.
Lorenzo was fighting. He was bleeding, perhaps dying, all to buy her time.
Evelyn slammed against a brick wall in a dark, narrow gangway, gasping for air. Her lungs burned. Her feet, still in her cheap waitress shoes, were numb. She looked down at the leather diary clutched in her hands.
Ten years ago, her father had run to protect her. Tonight, Lorenzo had stayed behind to do the same.
“Go to the railyard. Save my boy.”
Evelyn squeezed her eyes shut. How was she supposed to save anyone? She was a waitress. She was a girl from Cicero who couldn't even pay her electric bill. Celeste Vane was a billionaire with an army of corrupt cops and assassins at her disposal.
Evelyn slid down the brick wall, burying her face in her knees. She was so tired. It would be so easy to just keep running. To disappear, just like her father had.
As she hugged her knees, her hand slipped into the deep pocket of Lorenzo’s trench coat to find some warmth. Her fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of paper.
Frowning, she pulled it out.
There was barely enough moonlight to see, but she squinted at the paper. It wasn't a mafia ledger or a hit list.
It was a child’s drawing.
A crude, colorful crayon sketch of three stick figures standing outside a house. A tall man, a woman, and a little boy. Written in wobbly, six-year-old handwriting at the top were the words: To Uncle Enzo. My family.
Folded behind the drawing was a receipt. Evelyn smoothed it out. It was a receipt for a massive, anonymous donation to a children’s hospital in downtown Chicago, dated three days ago.
Evelyn stared at the items, a fresh wave of tears blurring her vision.
The city saw Lorenzo Moretti as a monster. But this coat, smelling of cedar and holding the treasures of a grieving uncle, told a completely different story. Lorenzo wasn't a ruthless king clinging to his throne. He was a man desperately trying to build a legitimate, safe life for an orphaned boy, trapped by the sins of his father.
Evelyn wiped her eyes. The terror in her chest began to harden into something else. Something cold. Something sharp.
Anger.
Arthur Vane had stolen her mother. He had destroyed her father. And now, Celeste Vane was trying to steal the only family Lorenzo had left.
Evelyn stood up. She wasn't going to run. She was going to finish what her father started.
She needed leverage, and she needed a phone.
Evelyn hurried down the alley until she found a glowing, beat-up 24-hour laundromat. The attendant was asleep behind bulletproof glass. Evelyn slipped inside, the fluorescent lights blinding after the dark streets, and walked straight to the public payphone on the back wall.
She dug a quarter out of the coat pocket and dropped it in. She dialed a number she hadn't called in years, but one her father had burned into her memory.
“If you’re ever in trouble, Evie,” her father had told her when she was ten, “you call the Tribune. You ask for Marcus.”
The line rang four times before a gruff, sleepy voice answered. “Metro desk. Marcus speaking.”
“Marcus,” Evelyn said, her voice steady. “My name is Evelyn Carter. Thomas Carter was my father.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. The sleepiness vanished instantly. “Thomas’s kid? Jesus. Your dad was a ghost, kid. He promised me the story of the century ten years ago and vanished.”
“He vanished because Arthur Vane murdered my mother and threatened to do the same to me,” Evelyn said cleanly. “I have the proof. I have a diary detailing Arthur’s shadow ledgers, and a confession of my mother’s murder.”
“Don’t move,” Marcus said, his voice buzzing with adrenaline. “Where are you? I’ll send a car—”
“No,” Evelyn interrupted. “I don't want a car. I want you to call the FBI field office. The untouchable ones. Not the Chicago PD. Tell them I have the Vane family ledger, and I’m willing to hand it over. But they have to meet me at the old South Side railyard in exactly one hour.”
“The railyard? Kid, that’s a death trap—”
“One hour, Marcus. Or the diary burns.”
Evelyn hung up the phone. She took a deep breath, steeling herself.
She had one more call to make.
She dialed the main line for The Obsidian. It was 3:30 AM, but she knew the restaurant was currently crawling with Celeste’s men cleaning up the crime scene.
Someone picked up on the first ring. “Yeah?”
“Put Celeste Vane on the phone,” Evelyn commanded.
“Who the hell is this?”
“Tell her it’s Evelyn Carter. And tell her I have the diary.”
There was a muffled shout on the other end, followed by the sound of footsteps. Ten seconds later, a smooth, icy voice came through the receiver.
“Hello, Evelyn.”
“I want to make a trade, Celeste,” Evelyn said, staring at her own pale reflection in the laundromat window. “The diary for the boy and Lorenzo.”
“Lorenzo is bleeding out on the floor of Union Station,” Celeste replied cruelly. “And the boy is currently sitting in the back of my car. Why would I trade with a dead girl walking?”
“Because if you don't,” Evelyn lied smoothly, channeling every ounce of her father’s poker-table bluffing, “I will drop this diary into a mailbox addressed to the Chicago Tribune. And your immunity deal with the Feds will go up in smoke, because they’ll have the proof that you knew about the murders all along.”
Silence hung heavily on the line. Evelyn had hit a nerve.
“The South Side railyard,” Celeste finally hissed. “Track four. Come alone. If I see a single cop, I’ll put a bullet in the boy’s head myself.”
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“I’ll be there.”
Evelyn hung up the phone. She tucked the diary into the trench coat and walked out into the snow. She was walking into a trap. But for the first time in her life, she was the one setting the snare.
