Luca was pacing now, running a hand through his dark hair. “The heirloom. The Naples Ledger. It’s the only thing that proves the rival syndicate’s treason.” He stopped and looked at me. “Emily, where is the lighthouse?”
I shook my head. “It’s not a real place. It’s just a painting in my old house.”
“No,” Luca said, his eyes darkening. “Elena wouldn’t draw it if it meant nothing. Think, Emily. Where is your childhood home?”
“We sold it,” I said softly. “Five years ago, to pay for my mother’s medical bills. It’s in the South Side. An old brick house on 42nd Street.”
Luca pulled his phone from his pocket. “Get the cars ready,” he barked into the receiver.
He looked down at Isabella, his expression softening. “Bella, stay here with Rosa. Daddy is going to find Mommy.”
“I want to go with Emily,” Isabella cried, gripping my apron.
Luca hesitated, but I knelt down to her level. “I promise I’ll bring her back, sweetie. You need to be brave right now.”
She nodded, wiping a tear away.
Luca and I rushed out of the room, leaving the mansion behind. We piled into the back of a black SUV. The rain had started to fall, slicking the Chicago streets in a gloomy glare.
“If Vanessa moved her,” Luca said, staring out the window, “she moved her to a place nobody would look.”
We pulled up to my old childhood home twenty minutes later. The house looked abandoned. The windows were boarded up, the front yard overgrown with weeds.
Luca’s men kicked the front door open. Flashlights pierced the darkness.
We walked into my old bedroom. The walls were peeling, but the mural of the lighthouse was still there, painted on the plaster.
Luca shined his flashlight on the wall.
“It’s just a painting,” I whispered, feeling a crushing wave of disappointment.
But Luca stepped closer. He reached out and touched the red brick of the painted lighthouse.
He pushed.
There was a hollow click.
A section of the wall swung open, revealing a dark, narrow staircase leading down into the earth.
And from the bottom of the stairs, I heard the faint ticking of a pocket watch.
The cold air rushing up from the hidden staircase smelled of damp earth and old paper.
Luca didn’t wait for his men. He drew a heavy, matte-black pistol from his jacket and descended into the dark. I followed close behind, the flashlight trembling in my hand.
“Stay behind me, Emily,” he ordered softly.
The stairs ended in a small basement room I never knew existed under my childhood home.
The flashlight beam swept across a concrete floor. In the center of the room sat a single iron hospital bed. Beside it was an IV stand, empty fluid bags discarded on the floor.
My heart hammered.
The bed was empty.
The blankets were tossed aside, as if someone had left in a hurry.
“No,” Luca whispered, the gun lowering slightly. “No, we’re too late.”
I walked toward a small wooden table near the bed. On it sat a gold pocket watch. It was ticking loudly in the suffocating silence of the room.
I picked it up. “Mr. Moretti.”
He turned, the flashlight illuminating my face.
“Look,” I said, pointing to the inside of the open watch case.
There was a fresh Polaroid photograph tucked inside.
Luca stepped closer, his breath hitching.
It was Elena.
She looked terrifyingly frail, her dark hair lank, her cheekbones sharp. But she was alive. And she was holding up a copy of yesterday’s Chicago Tribune.
“She was here,” Luca choked out, his thumb lightly grazing the glossy surface of the photo. “Yesterday.”
“Look at the back of the photo,” I said.
Luca turned it over.
Written in neat, sharp cursive were four words: Tick tock, Luca. — V
“Vanessa,” Luca growled, his grip on the photo tightening until the edges bent. “She knew we would figure it out. She’s playing a game.”
“Sir,” one of his men called out from the corner of the basement. “You need to see this.”
We rushed over. The man was holding his flashlight over a large, iron grate set into the floor. It looked like an old drainage pipe.
Tied to the iron bars of the grate was a piece of ripped fabric.
It was a piece of a red dress.
The exact same color as the gown Vanessa was wearing tonight.
“She didn’t just know we’d figure it out,” I said, my stomach twisting into a cold knot. “She was here today.”
Luca stared at the red fabric. A terrifying realization dawned on his face.
He grabbed his phone and dialed.
“Vincenzo,” Luca shouted into the phone. “Check the study. Now.”
There was a pause. The ticking of the pocket watch in my hand seemed to grow louder.
“Boss,” Vincenzo’s voice crackled through the speaker, breathless and panicked. “The study is empty. The window is broken. She’s gone.”
Luca slammed his fist against the concrete wall.
“She wasn’t trying to hide Elena from us,” I said, the horrific truth snapping into place. “She led us here. To get you out of the mansion.”
Luca’s eyes widened. “Isabella.”
He sprinted for the stairs.
I dropped the watch and ran after him, my lungs burning as we scrambled up into the old house and out to the street.
The black SUV was still there, engine idling. But the two men Luca had left outside were slumped on the pavement.
Luca shoved the driver aside and got behind the wheel. I jumped into the passenger seat. We tore through the Chicago streets, ignoring red lights, the engine roaring like a wounded animal.
When we skidded through the gates of the Moretti mansion, the front doors were wide open.
We ran inside. The house was dead silent.
“Isabella!” Luca roared, taking the stairs two at a time.
I ran down the hall toward Elena’s bedroom. The door was open.
The armchair was empty. Rosa was gone.
And on the floor, sitting directly in the center of the Persian rug, was Isabella’s favorite stuffed bear.
Pinned to the bear’s chest with a kitchen knife was a train ticket to Union Station.
