Chapter 2 - The St. Catherine Ghost
The silence in the room became unbearable.
Luca’s hand dropped from Vanessa’s face.
His fingers went slack.
The gold watch slipped from his grasp.
I caught it before it hit the concrete floor.
Luca didn't even notice.
He stared at Vanessa as if she had turned into a ghost.
“What did you just say?”
Vanessa was shaking uncontrollably now.
“Your father paid my family five million dollars to bury the truth.”
“My family crypt holds my deceased relatives.”
“It holds a baby, Luca.”
She backed into the laundry sink.
“A baby who died forty-eight hours after birth.”
Luca’s voice dropped an octave.
“And who am I?”
Vanessa didn't answer.
She looked toward the doorway.
She was calculating her exit route.
Luca didn't shout.
He simply glanced at Daniel.
“Lock her in the wine cellar suite. Cut her cell service.”
Daniel nodded.
Two guards appeared from the hall.
Vanessa screamed as they took her arms.
“Luca! You can’t do this to me! My father will burn this city down!”
Luca didn't turn around.
“Let him try.”
The heavy oak doors shut down the hall.
Her screams faded away.
Luca stood in the middle of the room alone.
His shoulders were stiff.
His hands were curled into tight fists.
I stood frozen against the counter.
I was holding the pieces of his mother’s watch.
I wondered if he would order me killed next.
Mafia families did not like witnesses to their shame.
Luca slowly turned around.
His eyes fell upon me.
They were bloodshot.
“You know how to fix watches.”
It was not a question.
“My father taught me, Mr. Moretti.”
“Can you put it back together?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do it.”
He pulled a heavy chair from the corner and sat down.
He watched my hands.
My fingers were trembling, but I forced them to stabilize.
I set the dial into place.
I placed the tiny gear into its jewel socket.
I tightened the micro-screws one by one.
He spoke into the quiet room.
“Why didn't you throw it away like she asked?”
I didn't look up from the loupe.
“Because it was your mother's.”
“You could have lost your job.”
“My father told me that a watch keeps track of the only thing a man can never buy back.”
Luca leaned forward.
“Time.”
“Truth,” I replied.
He went quiet again.
The watch was fully assembled.
The gold case snapped shut with a crisp click.
I held it out to him.
Luca took it.
He slipped it into his breast pocket, directly over his heart.
“Get your coat, Emma.”
I froze.
“Sir?”
“We are going to Milwaukee.”
“Mr. Moretti, I am only a maid.”
“You are the only person in this house who didn't lie to me today.”
He stood up.
“Get your coat. Daniel is bringing the armored sedan.”
Ten minutes later, we were on the Interstate heading north.
The sky above Chicago was black with rain clouds.
The rain hammered against the reinforced glass.
Daniel drove in total silence.
Luca sat beside me in the back.
He pulled a leather-bound folder from beneath the seat.
“St. Catherine’s closed in 1999,” Luca said.
He opened the folder.
“A fire destroyed the east wing.”
“The maternity ward?” I asked.
“Room 317 was on the third floor of that wing.”
He tapped a grainy black-and-white printout.
“My father bought the building two months before the fire.”
“Why would he buy an abandoned hospital?”
“To burn it down,” Luca muttered.
His jaw was set like granite.
“He wanted every paper record turned to ash.”
“Then what did Daniel find?”
Daniel spoke without turning his head from the road.
“The foundation vault survived.”
Daniel glanced in the rearview mirror.
“The original architectural plans show a subterranean vault built for radium storage.”
“It had four-inch steel doors,” Daniel continued.
“If the attending physician hid backup logs, they are in that vault.”
The rain grew heavier as we crossed the Wisconsin state line.
The sedan turned off the highway onto a cracked asphalt road.
Overgrown pine trees scraped against the sides of the car.
Ahead stood the skeletal remains of St. Catherine's Medical Center.
It was a monstrosity of scorched brick and shattered concrete.
Graffiti covered the rusted iron gates.
Daniel cut the headlights.
The engine idled in the dark.
“No patrols,” Daniel reported.
Luca pulled a Glock from his shoulder holster.
He checked the chamber with a smooth slide of his thumb.
He turned to me.
“Stay behind Daniel at all times.”
“I have a flashlight in my bag,” I whispered.
He handed me a small, heavy object.
A compact .38 revolver.
I stared at it.
“I don't know how to shoot this, Mr. Moretti.”
“Point and pull. Don't hesitate.”
We stepped out into the freezing mud.
The wind smelled like wet rot and old smoke.
Daniel led the way through a breached basement window.
Our flashlights cut through thick sheets of cobwebs.
The basement was flooded ankle-deep with stagnant black water.
We waded through the ruined hallways.
Discarded gurneys lay on their sides like metal ribs.
At the end of the corridor, a massive vault door stood embedded in the concrete.
It had a mechanical dial lock from the 1970s.
Daniel kicked the heavy handle.
It didn't budge.
“Rusted shut, boss. We need a torch.”
I stepped forward.
The flashlight beam hit the dial.
“It's not rusted.”
Luca looked at me.
“What do you mean?”
“The tumbler mechanism has been greased recently.”
I pointed to a thin bead of clean amber oil near the hinge.
“Someone has been inside this vault within the last forty-eight hours.”
Luca raised his weapon.
Daniel drew his own gun.
“Can you open it, Emma?” Luca whispered.
I took a deep breath.
My father had opened hundreds of antique safes.
Safes were just large, crude watches.
I put my ear against the cold steel plate.
I slowly turned the heavy brass dial.
Click.
I reversed the spin.
Click.
Clack.
The internal pins aligned.
I pulled the iron lever down with all my strength.
The heavy door groaned on its hinges.
It swung outward, releasing a gust of dry, preserved air.
Inside was a small concrete chamber.
Shelves lined the walls.
Most were empty.
Except for a single green metal lockbox on the central table.
Luca moved past me.
He reached for the lockbox.
A red laser dot suddenly danced across his chest.
“Get down!” I screamed.
The sound of shattered glass echoed from the corridor behind us.
A high-caliber bullet tore through the concrete inches above Luca's head.
Dust exploded everywhere.
Luca grabbed my collar and yanked me violently to the floor.
He shielded my body with his own.
A second shot blew through the heavy steel door.
Luca grunted.
He stiffened against me.
A warm, thick liquid dripped onto my forehead.
“Luca!” I gasped.
He coughed, his hand pressing against his side.
Blood seeped between his fingers.
He looked down into my eyes in the dark.
His voice was barely a whisper.
“Emma... look in the box.”
“You're shot!”
“Look in the damn box!”
I scrambled across the floor on my elbows.
I wrenched open the latch of the green metal container.
Inside lay a single leather-bound journal and an envelope.
On the envelope, written in faded blue cursive, were three words:
Forgive me, Vincent.
Vincent Bellini.
Vanessa's father.
I opened the flap.
Inside was a laboratory DNA certificate dated October 20, 1988.
I read the conclusion under my flashlight beam.
My heart stopped.
The sniper fired another round into the doorway.
Daniel was firing back, his weapon roaring in the narrow hallway.
Luca dragged himself toward me, his face pale as death.
“What does it say?” he wheezed.
I looked at the man who ruled Chicago's underworld.
The man everyone believed to be the son of the great Don Moretti.
I looked at the paper in my trembling hands.
“Luca...”
May you like
“Tell me!”
“You aren't a Moretti at all.”
