Chapter 3 - THE SILVER LIGHTER
The service elevator plummeted toward the underground garage, the hum of the cables masking the gunfire above.
Evelyn shrank against the back wall, her knees shaking so badly she could barely stand. Lorenzo stood in front of her, his broad shoulders shielding her from the doors. He hadn't lowered his weapon.
"A son," Lorenzo stated, not looking back at her. It wasn't a question.
"Leo," she whispered, tears finally breaking free. "He's six. He's at the babysitter's. Please, I just needed the tip money to pay rent. I don't know anything about you or your fiancée."
"Ex-fiancée," Lorenzo corrected coldly. "And you know enough to recognize a hit. Celeste's text. You saw it."
Evelyn nodded frantically. "I saw her phone. The reflection in the silver pitcher. She signaled with her purse. I just... I couldn't let you die. Not when you were looking right at me."
The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open to the damp, dimly lit parking garage. Lorenzo stepped out, his eyes scanning the shadows.
"My car is compromised. They'll have eyes on it," he muttered. He turned to her. "Where's your car?"
"I take the bus."
Lorenzo let out a harsh breath. He moved toward a dusty, unassuming sedan in the corner of the lot—a staff car. "Keys?"
"I don't—"
He didn't wait. He shattered the driver's side window with the butt of his gun, reached in, and popped the locks. Within seconds, he had the steering column panel off and was twisting wires. The engine roared to life.
"Get in," he ordered.
Evelyn scrambled into the passenger seat, sweeping broken glass off the vinyl. As Lorenzo slammed the gas, the car shot up the ramp and into the bitter Chicago night.
"Give me the address," Lorenzo said.
"No. You're not going near Leo."
Lorenzo whipped the car down a narrow alley, the headlights cutting through the darkness. "Listen to me, Evelyn. Celeste is thorough. By tomorrow morning, she'll have the restaurant's security footage. She'll see you swap the napkin. She'll run your employment file. She won't just come for you. She'll use the boy to make you suffer."
Evelyn’s blood ran cold.
"Cicero," she choked out. "54th Avenue."
They drove in tense silence. Evelyn’s hands fumbled in her apron pocket, pulling out her only comfort—a heavy, tarnished silver lighter. It had been her father's. She didn't smoke, but she rubbed the worn engraving on the side when she was terrified.
Lorenzo glanced at the movement. His eyes locked onto the silver object. The car swerved slightly.
"Where did you get that?" His voice had lost its calm. It was suddenly sharp, dangerous.
"It was my dad's," Evelyn said, pulling it back protectively. "He left it behind when he... when he ran away."
Lorenzo hit the brakes, pulling the car violently to the curb two blocks from her apartment. He killed the engine, turning to face her in the dark.
"Your father was Arthur Vance?"
Evelyn’s breath caught. "How do you know his name?"
May you like
Lorenzo didn't answer. He reached into his own breast pocket and pulled out a matching silver money clip, bearing the exact same intricate, crest-like engraving.
"Because your father didn't run away," Lorenzo said quietly. "He was my father's accountant. And the Vane family murdered him."
