Chapter 2 - The Blood-Stained Glass
The safe room behind the wine cellar was built like a vault inside a bank.
It was lined with dark walnut wood, furnished with leather sofas, and equipped with a wall of surveillance monitors that displayed every angle of the River North penthouse, the private parking garage, and the street levels below.
For forty-five agonizing minutes, I sat on the edge of a leather armchair, clutching my knees to my chest, staring at the black-and-white monitor feeds.
On the third screen, I watched the private elevator doors open on the penthouse level.
Four men in dark overcoats stepped out into the foyer, lead by an older man with silver hair, an expensive fur-collared coat, and eyes like a rattlesnake. Donato Moretti.
Vincenzo met them in the center of the vast living room, standing alone before the panoramic glass walls that overlooked the gray, rain-slicked Chicago skyline. He didn't have a weapon in his hand. He stood with his hands casually tucked into his trousers pockets, his expression completely blank, as if four armed assassins had simply dropped in for afternoon tea.
I couldn't hear the audio, but I could see the tension radiating off the screen like heat waves off pavement.
Donato gestured aggressively, his face contorted in anger, stepping close to Vincenzo. Vincenzo didn't flinch. He didn't step back. He simply waited for the older Don to finish speaking.
Then, Vincenzo raised his right hand.
On the screen, two of Donato's guards shifted their weight, their hands reaching inside their heavy coats.
Before either man could clear leather, the glass window behind Vincenzo blew inward in a shower of glittering, harmless safety shards.
In a movement so smooth it looked rehearsed, Vincenzo pulled a compact black firearm from his vest holster. Flash. Flash.
Two of Donato's guards crumpled to the hardwood floor instantly. Marco and three DeLuca enforcers stepped out from the shadows of the dining room archway, their automatic weapons trained on Donato and his remaining man.
Donato dropped to his knees, raising his hands, his face pale with sudden, blinding terror.
Vincenzo didn't execute him. He stepped forward, placed the hot barrel of his pistol against Donato's forehead, and spoke a few brief words. Then, with a casual kick, Vincenzo knocked Donato onto his side and nodded to Marco.
Marco dragged the bleeding men toward the service elevator while Vincenzo calmly turned, pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped a speck of blood from his cufflink.
My heart was beating so fast I thought my chest would rupture.
This was the man who had tucked my hair behind my ear fifteen minutes ago. A man who dealt in swift, terrifying violence without a single flicker of hesitation or remorse.
The door to the safe room clicked open.
Vincenzo stepped inside. He had put his suit jacket back on, though his white shirt was stained with a light spray of crimson across the left cuff. He held a small glass of amber whiskey in his hand.
He looked at me sitting on the sofa, trembling like a leaf.
"It's over," he said quietly, walking to the leather sofa opposite mine and sitting down. He took a slow sip of his drink. "Donato will not be returning to River North."
"Did you... did you kill them?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
"The men who pulled weapons in my home are dead," Vincenzo replied without an ounce of warmth or apology. "Donato is alive. He will remain alive long enough to transfer his holdings along the riverfront to my family. That is how business is done, Lucia."
"I want to go home," I choked out, tears finally breaking past my lashes and streaming down my cheeks. "Please, Mr. Russo. I don't belong here. I'm just a cleaning girl. I just want to take care of my brother."
Vincenzo set his glass down on the glass coffee table between us. The sharp clink made me jump.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, staring at me with an intensity that made the room shrink until there was nothing left except him and me.
"You are not just a cleaning girl, Lucia," Vincenzo said softly. "Your grandmother, Rosa Rossi, was my mother's twin sister."
I froze. The tears stopped on my cheeks. "What... what did you say?"
"Thirty years ago, there was a war in Sicily," Vincenzo explained, his voice low, measured, and dripping with ancient, heavy sorrow. "My father, Antonio Russo, took control of the family. But my mother's father was betrayed by his own brothers. To protect her sister, my mother smuggled Rosa out of Italy on a cargo ship bound for New York. Rosa took the name Marino and disappeared into Queens."
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out an old, yellowed document, setting it on the table beside his whiskey glass.
"My mother died giving birth to me," Vincenzo continued, his eyes fixed on mine. "Her final request to my father was to find her sister's bloodline. I have spent twelve years searching for Rosa Rossi's descendants. Six months ago, my investigators found a seventeen-year-old boy in Chicago named Mateo Marino who required three thousand dollars a month in specialized asthma treatments."
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
"My job..." I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. "The listing on the agency board six months ago... the one that paid double the normal rate..."
"Was not an accident," Vincenzo confessed quietly. "I brought you into my home so I could watch over you. So I could ensure you and your brother were safe, fed, and provided for without raising the suspicions of my enemies."
May you like
He stood up slowly, stepping toward me.
"You are my cousin, Lucia," Vincenzo whispered. "You are the last piece of my mother left in this world. And as long as there is breath in my body, no one will ever hurt you or Mateo again."
