Chapter 7 - THE GOLD POCKET WATCH
We sprinted through the blinding smoke, coughing, the sound of blind gunfire echoing behind us.
Dante dragged me toward a drainage tunnel at the back of the warehouse. We slid down the concrete embankment, splashing into freezing water.
Sofia was right behind us, her silver dress torn, her diamonds smeared with soot. But she wasn't crying anymore. Her eyes were feral.
“We need a car,” Sofia gasped.
“My men are waiting two blocks east,” Dante said, leading us through the dark tunnel.
We emerged into an alleyway. A sleek black town car was idling by the curb, two of Dante’s loyal guards standing watch.
We piled into the back seat.
“Take us to Queens,” Dante ordered the driver. “The dry cleaning shop.”
“You said the ledger isn't there,” I said, shivering in the cold leather seat.
“It isn't. But Lorenzo’s men are. And if your father sent them there, he left a trap.” Dante handed me a clean handkerchief to wipe my face.
I looked down at the bloody pocket watch in my hands. The coordinates engraved on the back.
40°45'06.0"N 73°59'39.0"W.
I frowned, wiping the soot from my eyes. “Wait. I know these coordinates.”
Dante turned to me. “Where do they lead?”
“They don't lead to a place,” I said, my heart starting to race. “They lead to a grave.”
Sofia leaned forward. “Whose grave?”
“My grandmother’s,” I said. “In Calvary Cemetery. My father bought the plot next to hers years ago.”
Dante’s eyes widened. “He buried it.”
“He buried the ledger,” I confirmed.
“Turn the car around,” Dante snapped at the driver. “Calvary Cemetery. Now.”
The car tires shrieked as we did a U-turn on the icy street.
We arrived at the cemetery gates in under twenty minutes. The snow was a thick white blanket over the ancient headstones.
We ran through the rows of granite angels, following the path I had walked a hundred times to visit my grandmother.
We found the plot.
The earth in front of the headstone was disturbed. Shovelled away.
Standing over the open hole was a man in a heavy winter coat, holding a metal lockbox.
He turned around as we approached.
He looked older, his hair completely gray, a deep scar across his cheek. But his kind eyes were exactly the same.
“Dad,” I whispered.
He dropped the lockbox. “Nora.”
I ran to him. We crashed into each other, crying, ten years of grief washing away in the snow. He was alive. The blood on the watch wasn't his—he had planted it to fake his death and escape Lorenzo’s men.
“I’m so sorry, mija,” he wept into my hair. “I had to keep you and your mother safe.”
Dante walked up, picking up the heavy metal lockbox.
“Arturo,” Dante said quietly.
My father looked at him. “You grew up, Dante. You became the man I hoped you’d be.”
“Do you have it?” Dante asked.
My father nodded. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small brass key.
He unlocked the box.
Dante opened the lid.
I looked inside, expecting to see a leather-bound book full of names and accounts.
Instead, the box was completely empty.
Except for a single, brightly colored piece of paper.
A train ticket to Montreal. Departing in exactly one hour.
And a note that said: Thanks for digging it up. — Sofia.
We whipped around.
Sofia was standing ten feet away.
May you like
She was pointing Dante’s spare pistol directly at my father’s chest. And she was holding the actual ledger in her other hand.
“I’m sorry, Dante,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “But I told you. I’m getting my daughter back.”
