Chapter 4 - THE MUDDY FOOTPRINT
Luca spun around from the open window, his dark coat billowing around him like a storm cloud. He looked at the muddy footprint on the drawing, and the grief in his eyes instantly incinerated into pure, terrifying rage.
“Lock down the estate,” Luca barked into his lapel microphone, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. “Nobody gets through the gates. Find Marco.”
He didn't wait for a response. He bolted out of the room, drawing a heavy black pistol from his shoulder holster as he ran.
I followed him, the throbbing pain in my wrist completely forgotten.
We took the back stairs, skipping steps, our feet pounding against the hardwood. When we reached the kitchen, the staff was huddled in the corners, terrified by the sudden alarm blaring through the mansion.
“Which way did he go?” Luca shouted at the head chef.
The man pointed a trembling finger toward the service corridor. “He went toward the garage, Mr. Moretti. He had the boy over his shoulder. The kid was crying.”
Luca burst through the double doors leading to the underground parking garage. The air was thick with the smell of exhaust and damp concrete.
Tires squealed.
At the far end of the massive garage, Marco’s black Mercedes sedan was accelerating toward the rising metal security gate.
Luca didn't hesitate. He raised his pistol and fired three times.
The shots were deafening in the enclosed space. The back window of the Mercedes shattered, but the car didn't stop. It violently scraped against the rising metal gate, sending a shower of orange sparks into the air, and tore out into the rainy Chicago night.
Luca lowered the gun, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth would crack.
“He got out,” Luca said, the words barely a whisper.
I ran up beside him, gasping for air. “Why would Marco take him? Vanessa is the one who wanted him gone.”
Luca turned to me, his eyes dark and hollow. “Because Vanessa didn't orchestrate my brother’s death, Emma. Marco did.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
“Marco was my father’s consigliere,” Luca explained, walking briskly toward the security office adjacent to the garage. “When my father died, Marco expected to take control. But the syndicate backed Alessandro. Three months later, Alessandro’s car exploded.”
Luca threw open the door to the security office. The two guards inside jumped to their feet.
“Pull up the garage cameras. Now,” Luca ordered.
The guards frantically tapped at their keyboards, rewinding the footage. We watched the grainy black-and-white video on the monitor. Marco emerged from the stairwell, carrying a struggling Oliver. He threw the boy into the backseat of the Mercedes, ignoring the child’s desperate kicking.
“Marco knew about the boy,” Luca said softly, staring at the screen. “He knew Vanessa was hiding him in the country. He let her keep the secret because as long as the boy was hidden, Marco was safe. But the moment the child walked into my house…”
“He became a threat,” I finished, feeling sick to my stomach. If Marco was willing to murder his boss, he wouldn't hesitate to kill an eight-year-old boy to protect his secret.
“Trace the plates on his car,” Luca ordered the guards. “Access the city traffic cameras. I want every man we have on the streets.”
“Sir,” one of the guards said nervously. “Marco knows our tracking protocols. He’ll dump the car within five miles.”
Luca slammed his fist against the desk, cracking the cheap plastic.
I looked down at the floor, trying to think. I remembered the little boy holding his drawing. I remembered the shattered silver watch.
And then I remembered something else.
“The suitcase,” I said aloud.
Luca looked at me. “What?”
“When Oliver first arrived, I carried his cardboard suitcase for him to the gatehouse,” I explained quickly. “It was heavier than it looked. And it had a tag tied to the handle. A shipping tag from a rural post office.”
Luca’s eyes sharpened. “Did you see the town name?”
“No,” I admitted, frustrated. “But Vanessa’s mother lives there. Oliver said he’s been living with Grandma Bellini.”
Luca pulled out his cell phone, his fingers flying across the screen. “Vanessa’s mother owns a massive estate in Galena. It’s three hours west of here. Isolated. If Marco wants to make the boy disappear, he’ll take him somewhere Vanessa can’t be traced back to the kidnapping.”
He looked at me, a dangerous, absolute resolve settling over his features.
“Emma, go home. The men will handle this.”
“I’m not going home,” I said, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. “Oliver trusts me. If you go in there with guns blazing, Marco will panic. You need someone the boy will run to.”
Luca stared at me. He looked at my torn dress, my bruised wrist, and the fierce determination in my eyes. For a second, the cold mafia boss softened, seeing the woman standing beneath the maid’s uniform.
“You’re bleeding for my family again,” he said quietly.
“I’ll survive,” I replied.
Luca nodded once. He turned to the guards. “Prep the armored SUV. Just me and Emma.”
“Sir, you need a strike team—”
“If Marco sees a convoy, he’ll execute the boy before we reach the front door,” Luca said coldly. “We go in quiet.”
Ten minutes later, we were speeding out of the city limits, the heavy, bulletproof SUV cutting through the torrential rain. The silence in the car was suffocating, thick with fear and unspoken promises.
I looked at Luca’s hands gripping the steering wheel. He was terrified.
“We’ll get him back,” I said softly.
Luca didn't look away from the road. “If Marco hurts one hair on that boy’s head, I will burn this entire city to the ground.”
My phone buzzed in my apron pocket.
It was an unknown number.
I hesitated, then swiped to answer.
“Hello?”
“Emma,” a woman’s voice whispered. She was crying hysterically.
It was Vanessa.
“Vanessa? Where are you?” I asked, putting the phone on speaker so Luca could hear.
“He locked me out,” she sobbed. “Marco took my car. He took Oliver. But Emma, you have to listen to me. He isn't taking him to Galena.”
Luca slammed on the brakes, the massive SUV skidding slightly on the wet pavement before coming to a complete stop on the shoulder of the highway.
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“Where is he taking him, Vanessa?” Luca demanded, leaning toward the phone.
“The old warehouse,” she choked out. “The one Alessandro owned on the South Side. Marco said it’s fitting. The son should die where the father’s car was rigged.”
