Mr. Moretti,” I said softly, standing up.
Luca turned from the slashed wheelchair, his eyes dark with barely contained fury. I held the photograph out to him.
He took it, reading the back. His brow furrowed in confusion.
“The linen closet?” Vanessa repeated, stepping closer. “What does that mean? There are a dozen linen closets at the estate.”
“Not the estate,” I said, my heart suddenly racing as a massive realization crashed over me. “Here. In this hospital.”
Luca looked at me sharply. “Why would she leave a clue about a linen closet in a psychiatric ward?”
“Because she isn't gone,” I breathed, the pieces finally clicking into place. “Look at the wheelchair, Luca. The seat cushion is slashed, but there are no ledgers on the floor. If the New York soldiers found the ledgers inside the chair, why would they take your mother? They don't need a hostage if they have the books. A hostage just slows them down.”
Luca looked at the ruined chair, the logic hitting him instantly.
“They didn't find the ledgers.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Marcus assumed the ledgers were in the chair because he put them there. But your mother is sharp. She knew Vanessa was up to something. What if she felt the lumps in the cushion on the ride here? What if she found them?”
“She hid them,” Luca finished, a spark of dangerous hope igniting in his eyes. “And she hid herself.”
We didn't waste another second.
We ran out of the patient room and back into the dark hallway of the locked ward.
“Where are the supply closets on this floor?” Luca demanded, keeping his gun raised as he scanned the shadows.
“Usually near the nurse’s station,” I said, remembering the layout of the nursing home my grandmother had died in years ago. Hospitals were all built the same.
We hurried toward the shattered glass enclosure of the central nurse’s station. Behind it, a heavy wooden door was marked Supplies & Linens.
The door was locked.
Luca didn't shoot it. He didn't want to make noise. He took a step back and drove his heel squarely into the locking mechanism. The cheap hospital wood splintered, and the door swung open.
The closet was pitch black, smelling strongly of bleach and fresh cotton.
Luca reached in and flicked the light switch.
Huddled in the very back corner, wedged between a rolling cart of folded sheets and a stack of blue hospital blankets, was Mrs. Moretti.
She was clutching two thick, black leather-bound books to her chest like a shield.
“Mother,” Luca breathed, dropping his gun to his side and rushing into the closet.
He dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms tightly around the frail woman. Mrs. Moretti buried her face in her son’s shoulder, letting out a ragged, silent sob.
“I told you I’d come back for you,” Luca whispered fiercely, kissing her silver hair.
“They came in,” she wept, her voice barely audible. “Men in suits. They were looking for the chair. I felt the books in the cushion on the ride over. I unzipped the cover and took them out when the nurse left me alone. When the men started breaking down the ward door, I slipped out of my room and hid in here.”
She looked up, her eyes wide with terror. She saw Vanessa standing in the doorway, her pearl-handled revolver still in her hand.
Mrs. Moretti flinched violently, clutching the ledgers tighter.
“It’s okay, Mother,” Luca said, his voice a soothing anchor. “Vanessa isn't going to hurt you. She’s helping us.”
Mrs. Moretti looked from Luca to Vanessa, confusion mingling with her fear.
Vanessa slowly lowered her gun, her arrogant facade completely shattered by the sight of the terrified old woman holding the very books that could destroy her life.
“I’m sorry, Maria,” Vanessa whispered, and for the first time since I met her, she sounded genuinely ashamed. “I’m so sorry.”
Luca gently took the heavy black ledgers from his mother’s trembling hands. He stood up, helping her to her feet. She was weak, leaning heavily against his side.
“We have to move,” Luca said, his eyes scanning the dark hallway outside the closet. “If New York realizes she isn't in her room, they’ll sweep the building. We need to get back to the car.”
We formed a tight formation. Luca in the front, supporting his mother. I walked right behind them. Vanessa took the rear, her revolver raised, acting as a reluctant bodyguard.
We moved quickly down the corridor, passing the shattered locked ward door.
We reached the main lobby. The cold night wind was blowing through the broken sliding glass doors. The black SUV was parked right where we left it.
“Almost there,” Luca whispered to his mother.
We stepped out onto the glass-covered pavement.
Suddenly, a blinding white spotlight clicked on from the roof of the hospital, pinning us in a harsh, inescapable glare.
“Hold it right there, Moretti!” a booming voice echoed over a megaphone.
Three black, armored SUVs tore around the corner of the hospital driveway, screeching to a halt, boxing in our sedan.
A dozen men in dark tactical gear poured out of the vehicles, raising assault rifles and aiming them directly at us.
They weren't police. They didn't have badges.
They were the New York Commission's hit squad.
And stepping out of the lead SUV, wearing a tailored cashmere overcoat and smoking a cigar, was Silvio Rossi, the underboss of the New York family.
Silvio smiled, a cold, reptilian expression.
“Evening, Luca. Heard you were having some family drama. Thought we’d drop by and collect what belongs to us.”
Luca didn't raise his gun. It would be suicide against a dozen rifles. He pulled his mother slightly behind him, shielding her with his body.
“The ledgers belong to Chicago, Silvio,” Luca said, his voice projecting calm authority despite the impossible odds.
“Not anymore,” Silvio chuckled, taking a drag of his cigar. “Marcus made a deal. He sold us the books. And since he couldn't deliver, we came to pick them up ourselves.”
Silvio’s eyes drifted past Luca. He looked at Vanessa, then at me.
He stopped.
His eyes widened slightly as he stared at my face under the harsh spotlight.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Silvio murmured, taking the cigar out of his mouth. “I never forget a face. But you’re supposed to be a ghost.”
He pointed a gloved finger directly at me.
“Arthur Vance’s kid,” Silvio said, laughing darkly. “Vincenzo told us your old man died in a car wreck before he could testify. But looking at you... he lied to us. Vincenzo let the rat live.”
The air rushed out of my lungs.
Vincenzo hadn't killed my father.
My father wasn't dead.
“Bring me the books, Luca,” Silvio ordered, tossing his cigar onto the pavement. “And bring me the girl. The Commission has some unfinished business with Arthur Vance’s bloodline.”
