Chapter 3 - THE EMPTY GRAVE
I dropped to the floor as a massive man in a dark trench coat stepped through the ruined doorway.
Gabriel fired twice. The man stumbled backward into the hallway, shouting.
“Go!” Gabriel roared, shoving me toward the narrow door hidden in the wall paneling—the servant’s passage.
I didn't think. I scrambled to my feet, clutching the child’s drawing and the keys Gabriel had thrown me. I threw my weight against the hidden door, slipping into the dark, narrow stairwell just as more gunfire erupted in the bedroom.
I ran.
My inexpensive shoes slapped against the wooden steps. My lungs burned. The hospital was four miles away. I navigated the maze of the mansion's service corridors, bursting out through the kitchen’s rear delivery door into the freezing Chicago rain.
Gabriel’s car was a heavy, armored sedan parked near the kitchen loading dock. I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking so violently I dropped them twice. I finally unlocked the door, threw myself into the driver’s seat, and slammed the lock button.
I sped down the winding driveway, my headlights cutting through the storm. In the rearview mirror, I saw the flashing lights of more vehicles swarming the front of the Moretti estate.
Twenty minutes later, I sprinted through the sliding glass doors of Chicago Memorial Hospital. I flashed my nursing badge to bypass the security desk and ran to the critical care wing.
Vincent’s room was guarded by two massive men in suits. They recognized me from the mansion and parted, opening the door.
Vincent was awake.
He looked terrible. The monitors beside his bed beeped in a steady, weak rhythm. His skin was the color of ash, and his dark eyes were sunken. He was holding something in his trembling hands—a small, tarnished silver pocket watch. He was rubbing his thumb over the engraved cover, staring at it with an emptiness that broke my heart.
“They told me what you did,” Vincent rasped, his voice barely a whisper. He didn't look up from the watch. “You stopped Whitmore’s treatment. The hospital doctors just told me my blood is full of an unknown neurotoxin. They don’t have an antidote.”
I walked to the edge of his bed. I was soaked to the bone, shivering, smelling of rain and fear.
“It wasn't a treatment, Vincent. Whitmore was keeping you weak.”
“I know,” Vincent said softly. He finally looked up at me. There was no anger in his eyes. Only defeat. “He’s been doing it for months. I let him.”
I stared at him, stunned. “You knew?”
Vincent looked back at the silver watch. “This belonged to my son, Leo. He died five years ago. Or so I thought. Three months ago, Whitmore came to me. He showed me a video on his phone. It was Leo. Older. Crying for me.”
Vincent’s voice cracked. The ruthless mafia boss was gone. In his place was a broken father.
“Whitmore told me that if I didn't submit to his 'treatments,' he would send me Leo in pieces. He wanted me weak so my sister could slowly take over the business and hand it to his employers. If I fought, my boy died.”
“So you let him poison you?” I asked, tears stinging my eyes.
“I’m a monster, Hannah,” Vincent whispered. “I’ve done terrible things in my life. I deserve this bed. I deserve the poison. But Leo is innocent. If my suffering keeps him breathing, I’ll gladly die.”
I stepped closer and pulled the folded train ticket from my pocket. I placed it over the face of the silver watch in his hands.
“Your mother hid this behind the family portrait,” I said softly.
Vincent’s trembling fingers unfolded the paper. He saw the bright blue crayon. He saw the blocky letters spelling LEO.
He stopped breathing for a second.
“Look at the ticket on the back, Vincent,” I urged.
He flipped it over. His eyes scanned the faded ink. “This is a train ticket from New York to Chicago. Dated two weeks ago.”
“He’s not in New York anymore,” I said. “Isabella confessed right before the house was attacked. Whitmore moved him. He’s here, Vincent. In Chicago.”
Vincent gripped the paper so tightly his knuckles turned white. A terrifying, predatory energy suddenly flooded the room. The dying man vanished. The businessman the newspapers feared had just woken up.
He reached up and ripped the heart monitor pads off his chest. The machine flatlined in a shrill, continuous tone.
“Vincent, you can’t get up, your heart—”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “My heart has been dead for five years, Hannah. It just started beating again.”
The hospital room door suddenly burst open.
A tall man in a soaked trench coat stood there. He was bleeding from a graze on his shoulder. It was Gabriel.
In his massive, blood-stained hand, he was holding a tiny, bright blue winter coat.
“Gabriel?” Vincent stood up, bracing himself against the bed railing.
May you like
Gabriel tossed the little blue coat onto the hospital bed.
“We lost the mansion,” Gabriel said, panting heavily. “But I got one of Whitmore’s men to talk before he stopped breathing. I know where they’re keeping him, Boss.”
