THE PAWN TICKET IN THE METAL LUNCHBOX

Winter arrived in Chicago with a heavy blanket of snow, turning the Moretti estate into a white fortress.

It had been three months since the arrest.

Our lives had settled into a beautiful, chaotic rhythm.

Toby was enrolled in a private school, thriving under the love and stability he had never known. Luca’s shoulder was nearly fully healed. We were planning a quiet wedding for the spring.

It was a Tuesday afternoon.

I was in the attic of the mansion, sorting through old boxes. Luca wanted to clear out the remnants of his father’s old business files to build a playroom for Toby.

The attic smelled of cedar and old paper.

I opened a heavy cardboard box labeled DONATIONS - 1998.

Inside were old clothes. Sweaters, scarves, a pair of worn leather gloves.

At the very bottom of the box, folded neatly, was a tiny, navy blue winter coat.

It had wooden toggle buttons and a small plaid hood.

I picked it up, smiling at how small it was. It looked like it would fit a four-year-old.

As I brushed the dust off the sleeve, I felt something hard in the right pocket.

I frowned and reached inside.

My fingers brushed against something cold and metallic.

I pulled it out.

It was a heavy, silver key.

But it wasn’t a house key or a safe key. It looked incredibly old, with a massive, ornate head shaped like a lion.

“What in the world?” I murmured.

“Find some buried treasure?”

I jumped, turning around.

Luca was standing at the top of the attic stairs, wearing a gray cashmere sweater, holding two mugs of hot cider.

He smiled, walking over and handing me a mug.

“Just looking through these old clothes,” I said, showing him the blue coat. “I found this in the pocket.”

I held up the lion-head key.

Luca stopped smiling.

He set his mug down on a dusty trunk and took the key from my hand.

He stared at it as if it were a venomous snake.

“Where did you find this?” he asked, his voice suddenly tense.

“In the pocket of that little blue coat,” I said. “Luca, what is it?”

He looked at the coat.

“That was Matteo’s coat,” Luca said quietly. “He wore it the winter before the fire.”

He ran his thumb over the lion’s head on the key.

“This key unlocks the catacombs beneath the old downtown basilica,” Luca explained. “My grandfather bought a private vault down there during Prohibition to hide the family’s wealth from the feds.”

“Is there still money down there?” I asked.

Luca shook his head.

“No. My father emptied it decades ago to legitimize the business. He threw this key into the Chicago River in 1985. I watched him do it.”

A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the winter air.

“If your father threw it in the river in 1985,” I said slowly, “how did it end up in Matteo’s coat pocket in 1996?”

Luca looked at me, the implication settling heavily between us.

Someone had fished it out.

Or someone had made a copy.

“Matteo hid it,” Luca realized. “He knew Catherine Bellini was coming for us. He must have hidden something in the basilica before he faked his death.”

Luca grabbed my hand.

“Get your coat, Emma. We’re going to church.”

An hour later, we stood in the freezing, cavernous basement of the Basilica of San Clemente.

The air was thick with the smell of old stone and burning wax.

The priest had let us down into the historical catacombs, leaving us alone with a single flashlight.

We walked past rows of ancient stone tombs until we reached a heavy iron door at the very back of the tunnels.

The Moretti crest was rusted onto the center.

Luca inserted the lion-head key into the massive lock.

He had to use both hands to turn it.

With a grinding screech of metal, the lock gave way.

Luca pulled the heavy iron door open.

We stepped into the small, dark vault, shining the flashlight around.

It was completely empty, except for a single wooden pedestal in the center of the room.

Resting on the pedestal was a small, intricately carved wooden puzzle box.

And pinned beneath it was a note.

Luca picked up the note.

It was in Matteo’s handwriting.

‘To whoever finds this: The Bellinis took our home, but they cannot take our foundation. The truth of the Chicago fires is inside. But beware, the lock requires blood to open.’

Luca stared at the wooden puzzle box.

“Blood?” I whispered, horrified.

Luca didn’t hesitate.

He reached for his pocket knife, but before he could pull it out, we heard the unmistakable click of a gun hammer cocking behind us.

We spun around.

Standing in the doorway of the vault, holding a suppressed pistol aimed directly at Luca’s chest, was a man we both knew very well.