Chapter 2 - The Name in the Darkness
Vincent moved before anyone else understood what was happening.
He pushed Lily behind the heavy private-room table.
“Stay down.”
Claire tried to rise.
“No.”
Vincent pressed one hand gently against her shoulder.
“Stay with your daughter.”
Another crash came from the dining room.
Emergency lights flickered on.
Rocco stepped beside Vincent.
“Back exit?”
“Covered?”
“Two men.”
“Kitchen?”
“Three.”
Vincent opened the private-room door.
The Golden Palm looked completely different under the dim red emergency lighting.
Guests crouched beside tables.
Several of Vincent’s men had drawn weapons but were holding their positions.
At the center of the dining room stood an elderly waiter named Giuseppe.
His hands were raised.
A stranger stood behind him.
The stranger wore a dark delivery jacket.
One hand was inside his pocket.
Vincent walked forward.
“You called my name.”
The man smiled.
“So the king comes when summoned.”
Vincent stopped ten feet away.
“Let Giuseppe go.”
The stranger laughed quietly.
“Still pretending you’re civilized.”
“I don’t need to pretend.”
Vincent’s voice remained level.
“Let him go.”
The stranger released Giuseppe.
The waiter stumbled away.
Vincent’s men moved.
“Stay back,” Vincent ordered.
The stranger looked almost disappointed.
“You’ve changed.”
“Have we met?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
The man slowly removed his hand from his pocket.
Empty.
Rocco cursed.
The stranger had never been armed.
Vincent did not relax.
“Why are you here?”
“To deliver something.”
“Then deliver it.”
The stranger reached into his jacket with two fingers and removed an envelope.
He dropped it on a white tablecloth.
“Your father should have burned everything.”
Vincent’s expression did not change.
“My father is dead.”
“Yes.”
The stranger smiled again.
“That’s why everyone became careless.”
He turned toward the entrance.
Vincent’s men blocked him.
“Move,” Vincent said.
Rocco looked at him.
“You’re letting him leave?”
“For now.”
The stranger walked out.
Rocco followed him with two men.
Vincent picked up the envelope.
Inside was a photograph of Anna Bell.
She stood beside Vincent’s father, Dominic Moretti.
Between them was Carlo Moretti.
The photograph had been taken inside a warehouse.
On the back someone had written:
ASK CARLO WHO CLOSED THE DOOR.
Vincent read it twice.
He did not feel anger immediately.
Anger was simple.
What he felt was worse.
Doubt.
Carlo had been his uncle, mentor, and adviser for most of his life.
When Dominic Moretti died, Carlo had stood beside the coffin and told Vincent, “Your father trusted you with the name. I’ll help you carry it.”
Vincent had believed him.
Rocco returned ten minutes later.
“He disappeared into the subway.”
“Camera?”
“Working on it.”
Vincent showed him the photograph.
Rocco’s face tightened.
“You think Carlo—”
“I think nothing yet.”
Vincent returned to Claire.
Lily was sitting beside her mother, clutching a napkin someone had folded into a bird.
She looked at Vincent immediately.
“Did the bad man leave?”
“Yes.”
“Is he coming back?”
Vincent considered lying.
“I don’t know.”
Lily nodded seriously.
Children respected uncertainty more than adults did.
Claire saw the photograph in his hand.
“What is that?”
Vincent gave it to her.
Claire stared.
“That’s Anna.”
“You recognize the location?”
“No.”
“Look carefully.”
Claire did.
Then she pointed to a small painted number visible on a steel beam behind them.
“Fourteen.”
Vincent recognized the style.
His father had once owned fourteen warehouses along the Calumet River.
Most had been sold.
Warehouse Fourteen had burned down eleven years ago.
Two weeks after Anna disappeared.
“What happened there?” Claire asked.
“Officially?”
“Yes.”
“Electrical fire.”
“And unofficially?”
Vincent looked at the photograph.
“I’m beginning to wonder.”
The doctor returned.
“We should move Claire.”
Vincent arranged a private ambulance owned by a physician who owed him no favors but trusted his word.
He refused to send Claire to one of the major hospitals.
Too many people could be bought.
Lily would not leave her mother.
Vincent rode with them.
At a private clinic, Claire received treatment while Vincent waited with Lily.
It was nearly midnight.
Someone brought Lily hot chocolate.
She did not touch it.
“Are you a bad man?” she asked.
Vincent looked at her.
Most adults would never have dared.
“Sometimes.”
Lily considered that.
“Did you hurt my mama?”
“No.”
“Did your family?”
Vincent looked toward the treatment room.
“I don’t know.”
“That means maybe.”
“Yes.”
She stared into the untouched chocolate.
“Mama said dangerous people aren’t always the ones who look dangerous.”
Vincent almost smiled.
“She sounds smart.”
“She is.”
Lily finally took one sip.
Then she asked, “Are you going to help us?”
Vincent looked at her small face.
“Yes.”
“Even if your family did it?”
He answered more slowly.
“Especially then.”
At one in the morning, Claire was moved to a guarded room.
Vincent left Rocco outside and went to see Carlo.
His uncle lived in a stone mansion in Lincoln Park.
Carlo answered the door himself.
Sixty-two years old, silver at the temples, perfectly dressed despite the hour.
“Vincent?”
“We need to talk.”
Carlo saw his expression.
“What happened?”
Vincent entered.
He placed the photograph on the desk.
Carlo did not touch it.
For three seconds he said nothing.
Then he poured himself a drink.
“Where did you get this?”
“You know who she is.”
Carlo drank.
“Anna Bell.”
“She was supposedly a thief.”
“That’s what your father believed.”
“What do you believe?”
Carlo looked at him.
“That the past should stay buried.”
Vincent’s voice cooled.
“Bad answer.”
“Vincent.”
“Warehouse Fourteen.”
Carlo turned away.
“What happened there?”
“Nothing you need to know.”
“A woman was attacked tonight. Her six-year-old daughter ran into my restaurant.”
Carlo froze.
Vincent watched carefully.
“She has a daughter?”
“You didn’t know?”
Carlo slowly turned back.
“Who was attacked?”
“Anna’s sister.”
Carlo whispered, “Claire.”
Vincent stared.
“You know her name.”
Carlo realized his mistake.
The room went silent.
“You said you barely knew Anna,” Vincent said.
“I knew more than I told you.”
“How much more?”
Carlo walked toward the window.
“Your father made mistakes.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“He trusted men he shouldn’t have.”
“Who?”
Carlo remained silent.
Vincent stepped closer.
“Someone attacked Claire because she found records Anna left behind.”
Carlo’s eyes closed.
“Then they know.”
“Who knows?”
Carlo turned.
“Vincent, take that woman and child somewhere far away.”
“Why?”
“Because if they found Claire, they will kill anyone connected to those records.”
“Who are they?”
Carlo shook his head.
“You cannot fight this the way you fight everything else.”
Vincent laughed once without humor.
“You’re afraid.”
“Yes.”
The admission surprised him.
Carlo Moretti had never admitted fear.
Vincent leaned forward.
“Of whom?”
Carlo stared at his nephew.
Then his phone rang.
He looked down.
His face changed.
“Don’t answer,” Vincent said.
Carlo answered anyway.
He listened.
No words.
Then the call ended.
“What?”
Carlo did not move.
“Carlo.”
His uncle looked toward the front window.
“Get down.”
The glass exploded inward.
Vincent dragged Carlo behind the desk.
A second window shattered.
Then silence.
Rocco’s voice came through Vincent’s earpiece.
“Shots from across the street. Shooter moving.”
Vincent looked at Carlo.
His uncle was breathing hard.
On the floor beside him lay the phone.
The screen was still lit.
A text message had arrived.
Vincent picked it up.
Carlo reached for it.
“No.”
Vincent read the message.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ANNA DIE QUIETLY.
Underneath was another line.
VINCE DOESN’T KNOW ABOUT THE CHILD.
Vincent slowly raised his eyes.
“What child?”
Carlo said nothing.
Vincent grabbed his uncle’s collar.
“What child?”
Carlo’s lips parted.
Before he could answer, someone knocked three times on the mansion’s back door.
Rocco shouted from the hallway.
“Vincent, we’ve got someone.”
May you like
A woman’s voice answered from outside.
“I know what happened to Anna Bell.”
