Chapter 7 - THE CRAFTSMAN’S VAULT
The helicopter landed on the secluded private runway at Gary, Indiana.
The storm had begun to recede, leaving a thick, freezing fog rolling off the marshes.
A nondescript gray cargo van waited near the hangar with its engine idling.
Dante, Isabella, and Marco climbed inside.
The interior was converted into a mobile command center with glowing monitors and radio racks.
Dante handed Isabella a clean dry towel and a thick wool sweater.
She took the sweater without a word, pulling it over her head.
The scent of cedar and clean cotton was a relief against the stench of smoke and gun oil.
Marco sat at the radio console, stitching his wounded shoulder with sterile suture tape.
He didn't make a sound.
Dante turned to Isabella, his arms crossed over his chest.
"Explain," Dante said.
"Explain what you meant on the helicopter."
Isabella sat on an equipment crate, drying her dark hair.
"Your father knew he was dying six months ago," she said quietly.
"He called me to the hospice ward while you were handling the union dispute in Cleveland."
Dante blinked.
"He never told me."
"Because he knew you would tear the city apart looking for whoever poisoned him," she said.
Dante’s body went completely rigid.
His eyes narrowed into terrifying slits.
"What did you say?"
"Your father was poisoned, Dante."
"Small doses of thallium in his nightly grappa."
"It mimicked kidney failure."
Dante looked as though he had been hit with a sledgehammer.
He gripped the edge of the metal desk until the steel groaned under his fingers.
"Who?" Dante whispered.
"He didn't know for sure," Isabella said.
"He suspected Carlo, but he had no proof."
"So he protected the only thing that gave the Moretti family total control of their wealth."
"The Star of Palermo."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her leather-bound sketchbook.
It was damp, but the thick parchment had survived.
She opened it to a detailed charcoal drawing of an intricate mechanical puzzle box.
"Your father commissioned my uncle, Lorenzo Rossi, to build a replica of the stone five months ago," Isabella explained.
"My uncle is the chief restorer for the Field Museum’s mineral collection."
"He didn't make one fake."
"He made three."
"The first fake was placed in the salon safe for Carlo to steal."
"The second fake was given to Sophia to keep her distracted."
"And the third?" Dante asked, his voice shaking with anticipation.
"The third fake was the one Carlo just showed you on the lawn."
"Then where is the real stone?" Marco asked from the console.
Isabella looked at Dante.
Her gaze was completely steady.
"Your father didn't trust his family, Dante."
"He didn't trust his cousins, his sister, or his wife."
"He trusted the girl who used to sit by his bed reading Dante Alighieri to him while his legs failed."
She tapped the drawing of the puzzle box.
"The real Star of Palermo is sitting in plain sight."
"Where?" Dante leaned in.
"In the public exhibition hall of the Driehaus Museum on Erie Street."
"Mounted inside the crown of the gilded statue of St. Michael."
"Registered under the name of the Rossi Family Trust."
Dante stared at her in utter disbelief.
The ninety-million-dollar key to his entire empire had been sitting five blocks from his downtown penthouse for half a year.
Guarded by rent-a-cops and velvet ropes.
"Carlo doesn't know," Dante realized.
"Carlo thinks he has the Detroit Petrovs on his side because he promised them the real key," Isabella said.
"When Viktor Vance runs that stone through their digital spectrometer tonight..."
"...he will find glass," Marco finished, a cold smirk spreading across his scarred face.
"And Viktor Vance does not forgive people who waste his time."
Suddenly, the van's main communications monitor turned blood red.
An incoming emergency broadcast was being forced through the private Moretti syndicate frequency.
Carlo Moretti’s face appeared on the high-definition display.
He was sitting behind Dante's mahogany desk at the Chicago central office.
Beside him stood four heavily armed Russian operatives in dark tactical gear.
"Good morning, Chicago," Carlo spoke smoothly into the camera.
"By emergency decree of the Midwest Commission, Dante Moretti has been declared an outlaw."
"A fifty-million-dollar bounty has been placed on his head."
"And a five-million-dollar bounty has been placed on Isabella Rossi."
Carlo leaned forward, his handsome face twisting into a predator’s smile.
"We have Lorenzo Rossi in custody at the River North railyard."
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"You have until dawn, cousin."
"Bring the key to the iron yard, or the old craftsman dies on the cutting torch."
