The Man In The Velvet Chair

“You cannot go alone, Boss,” Marco said, his massive frame blocking the doorway of the guest room. “It’s a suicide mission. The second you hand over the evidence, Dominic will put a bullet in your head and kill the girl’s mother anyway.”

Luca didn't look at his security chief. He kept his eyes locked on me.

I was trembling so violently I had to lean against the dresser to stay upright.

“Marco is right,” I whispered, the words tearing at my own throat. I looked at Luca, the man who had just lost his wife all over again, the man whose daughter had almost been sold. “You can't go. He’ll kill you. And if you die, Sophie has no one.”

Luca walked toward me. He stopped mere inches away, his towering presence surprisingly gentle.

“Hannah,” Luca said softly. “You stood between a loaded gun and my mother tonight. You did that for a woman who is not your blood. Do you think I am going to let the woman who gave you life die in a warehouse?”

“But he’ll kill you,” I sobbed.

“He’s going to try,” Luca corrected.

He turned back to Marco.

“Gather the men. I am driving to the front entrance of the warehouse alone. You will take the tactical team and breach the roof.”

“Boss, the warehouse is a fortress,” Marco argued. “The Bellini family built it during the Prohibition era. The steel doors are three inches thick. It will take us ten minutes to blow the roof, and you’ll be dead in two.”

“Then we need another way in,” Luca snapped, pacing the room. “Think, Marco! There has to be a structural weakness.”

“There isn't one,” a fragile voice said from the doorway.

We all turned.

Teresa Moretti stood in the hall, leaning heavily on her cane. She had left the safety of the panic room.

“Mom, what are you doing up here?” Luca asked, rushing to her side.

“I couldn't sit in that room while this girl’s mother is waiting to die,” Teresa said fiercely. She looked at me, her eyes filled with a terrifying resolve.

She turned to Luca.

“The Bellini warehouse doesn't have a structural weakness,” Teresa explained. “Because my husband helped build it forty years ago. But it does have a secret.”

Luca frowned. “A secret?”

Teresa nodded. “During the crackdowns in the eighties, Carlo needed a way to move product out of the warehouse if the feds raided the front doors. He built a subterranean tunnel. It connects the basement of the warehouse to the old drainage system under the Chicago River.”

Marco’s eyes widened. “A tunnel? Boss, if that tunnel still exists, my men can come up directly through the floor while Dominic is focused on you.”

“Does Dominic know about the tunnel?” Luca asked his mother.

“No,” Teresa shook her head. “Only Carlo knew. And he gave the key to the tunnel hatch to the one man he trusted more than anyone else in the world.”

Teresa reached a trembling hand to her neck. She unclasped the heavy, gold locket she had worn every single day since her husband died.

She opened the locket. Inside wasn't a picture.

It was a small, intricately carved iron key.

“My husband told me to keep this safe,” Teresa whispered, placing the heavy heirloom into Luca’s hand. “He said if the family ever needed a way out, this key would open the iron grate in the drainage tunnels.”

Luca stared at the key. The sheer weight of his family’s history was resting in his palm.

“Thank you, Mom,” Luca said softly, kissing her cheek.

He turned to Marco.

“Take the key. Take the tactical team. You have twenty minutes to navigate the drainage system and get under that warehouse floor. When I give the signal, you breach.”

“Understood, Boss,” Marco said, grabbing the key and sprinting down the hall.

Luca looked at me.

“Hannah. Go back to the panic room with my mother.”

“No,” I said.

My voice wasn't shaking anymore. A cold, terrifying calm had settled over me.

“What?” Luca asked, surprised by my tone.

“Dominic knows I found the toxicology report,” I said, stepping forward. “He knows my mother found the bracelet. He wants the evidence. He won't believe you came alone unless I am with you.”

“Absolutely not,” Luca said, his voice returning to a roar. “I am not taking a civilian into a firefight!”

“She’s my mother, Luca!” I yelled back, tears streaming down my face. “If I stay here in a safe room while she dies on a dirty warehouse floor, I will never forgive myself. Let me help you. Let me carry the evidence. It will distract him.”

Luca stared at me. He saw the exact same fiercely protective love in my eyes that he felt for his own daughter.

He let out a long, heavy breath.

“You stay behind me the entire time,” Luca ordered, his voice deadly serious. “If shooting starts, you hit the floor and you do not move.”

“I promise,” I whispered.

We ran downstairs and out to Luca’s personal car, a sleek, black sedan.

The drive to the South Side was a terrifying race against the clock. The storm was worsening, the thunder rattling the windows of the car.

Luca drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the weapon holstered at his waist.

“Hannah,” Luca said quietly, keeping his eyes on the road. “When this is over, you and your mother are leaving Chicago. I’ll set you up anywhere in the world. You’ll have enough money to never work again.”

I looked at him. The mafia boss who was risking his own life to save a maid’s mother.

“I don't want your money, Mr. Moretti,” I said softly.

He glanced at me. “Then what do you want?”

“I want to take my mother home. And I want to see you tuck Sophie into bed.”

Luca’s jaw tightened, a profound emotion flashing across his face.

“You will,” he promised.

The massive, rusted steel structure of the Bellini warehouse loomed ahead in the darkness. There were no cars outside. No lights. Just a heavy, rolling metal door at the front.

Luca parked the car fifty yards away.

He turned off the headlights.

He looked at me, handing me a manila folder containing the tape, the vial, and the report.

“Hold this,” he said.

We stepped out into the freezing rain and walked toward the warehouse.

Luca reached the small side door. He didn't knock. He pushed it open.

The warehouse was cavernous, smelling of oil, dust, and rust. A single industrial spotlight illuminated the center of the massive concrete floor.

Sitting tied to a wooden chair directly under the spotlight was my mother.

Her face was bruised, her hospital gown soaked and muddy.