Lily wiped a rogue tear from her cheek and nodded, clutching the small titanium card against her chest. “Thank you. Both of you.”
Frank turned the steering wheel sharply, pulling the SUV into a narrow alleyway behind an old three-story brick building.
The neon sign above the front awning was dark, but the faded painted letters on the brick remained visible under the streetlamp: **DELUCA’S ORIGINAL KITCHEN – EST. 1974.**
The restaurant had been closed to the public for three months, ostensibly for “renovations” ordered by Serena Whitmore. In reality, plywood boards covered the front windows, and yellow construction tape fluttered in the wet wind.
“We’re here, boss,” Frank said, putting the vehicle in park and cutting the engine.
Marco opened his door and stepped out into the rain. He did not care about the downpour drenching his three-thousand-dollar suit. He walked immediately around to the passenger side, opened the door, and held out his large, warm hand.
Lily looked up. For a moment, she thought he was reaching for his mother, but Marco was looking straight at her.
She placed her smaller hand into his. His grip was firm, calloused, yet surprisingly gentle as he helped her step down onto the wet cobblestones, shielding her from the rain with his broad body before turning to help his mother.
Marco looked up at the darkened building of his childhood.
“Frank, unlock the back pantry door,” Marco commanded. “Let’s see what my brother and Richard Hale were so eager to destroy.”
***
Chapter 3 – Blood Against Blood
The lock on the heavy iron back door gave way with a dry groan.
The air inside the dark kitchen smelled of damp masonry, cold iron, and decades of garlic, roasted peppers, and caramelized onions baked so deeply into the plaster walls that forty years could not wash them away.
Frank flicked the wall switch. Fluorescent tubes flickered, humming loudly before casting a harsh white glare across the prep area.
Lily looked around in awe. This wasn’t the sparkling stainless-steel laboratory of the Midtown flagship restaurant where everything was chrome, digital thermometers, and sterile glass. This was a true Italian kitchen. Heavy butcher-block tables scarred by thousands of knife cuts. Giant copper stockpots hanging from wrought-iron ceiling hooks. A massive, brick-arched pizza oven dominating the far wall like a sleeping beast.
Maria stepped through the doorway and let out a long, shuddering sigh. She walked over to the butcher-block table, running her trembling fingers across the wood.
“Forty-six years,” she whispered. “Antonio carved our initials under the lip of this counter the night we paid off our first meat vendor.”
Marco walked straight toward the brick oven.
He stopped. His eyes darkened.
Scattered on the tiled floor in front of the oven were heavy industrial tools: a pneumatic jackhammer, two sledgehammers, and bags of commercial masonry patch. Someone had already begun chipping away at the decorative ceramic tiles around the hearth.
“They were already working,” Frank muttered, stepping up beside Marco, his hand instinctively resting on his sidearm. “Dominic didn’t even wait for the sale contract to close. He had a private crew in here over the weekend.”
“They didn’t find it,” Maria said calmly, walking toward the rear of the oven where an old dry-storage pantry stood filled with empty tomato crates.
Lily followed closely behind Maria. “Mrs. DeLuca, Serena told me the archives were under the oven floor. That’s why Dominic brought the jackhammers.”
A faint, mocking smile touched Maria’s aged lips. “Men always look where the fire burns brightest. Antonio knew that.”
Maria reached behind the bottom shelf of the pantry, past stacks of dusty San Marzano cans from twenty years ago. Her hand felt along the rough mortar between the foundation stones. She pressed a rectangular stone inward.
A muffled *clack* echoed behind the brickwork.
Marco stepped forward immediately. “Stand back, Ma.”
Using both hands, Marco gripped the wooden framing of the shelving unit. With a surge of immense physical power that strained the fabric of his suit jacket across his shoulders, he pulled the entire shelving unit outward. It pivoted smoothly on hidden steel hinges, revealing a dark, vertical crawlspace descending into the foundation earth beneath the floor.
Lily gasped. “A sub-cellar?”
“Antonio dug it himself with a trenching shovel at night,” Maria said. “He told everyone he was repairing a ruptured sewer pipe. Frank, bring the flashlight.”
Frank handed Marco a high-intensity tactical flashlight. Marco beamed the white light down the narrow stone stairs.
“Stay here, Lily,” Marco said softly.
“No,” Lily said before she could stop herself.
Marco paused, turning his head to look at her.
Lily flushed under his gaze, but she didn’t look away. “Serena gave Dominic a set of serial numbers three days ago. She had a list from Richard Hale’s family archives. If you’re looking for the specific Hale syndicate ledgers, I memorized the reference codes when she forced me to scan their private audit sheets.”
