Chapter 3 - THE ADDRESS ON THE DRAWING
The grand foyer emptied, leaving only the echo of the storm outside.
Luca released his grip on Marcus’s throat, letting his cousin slide to the floor, gasping for air. Two armed guards immediately flanked Marcus, pulling his concealed weapon from his jacket.
"Take him to the basement," Luca ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.
He turned his attention to Vanessa, who was sobbing quietly on the rug, clutching the child’s drawing to her chest. Luca knelt beside her, his dark eyes searching her bruised face.
"You have a son," Luca said. It wasn't a question.
Answer One: Vanessa's desperation wasn't born of greed, but of a mother's terror.
Vanessa nodded, trembling violently. "His name is Leo. He’s five. Marcus found us in Wisconsin. We were broke. He offered to pay off my debts if I married him to get citizenship. But a month later, he annulled it. He said he had a better job for me."
"To marry me," Luca deduced.
"Yes," she cried. "He wanted your assets. He knew your father's will stipulated that the offshore accounts only unlock once you're married. He took Leo. He said if I didn't get you to the altar, I would never see my baby again."
I stood silently by the staircase, my heart aching. The woman who had humiliated me ten minutes ago was now a broken mother.
"Where is the boy, Vanessa?" Luca asked.
"I don't know!" she wailed. "He wouldn't tell me. He only sends me these drawings once a month to prove Leo is alive."
Open Two: If Marcus hid the boy, where would a mafia lieutenant stash a five-year-old child in Chicago?
I looked at the drawing in Vanessa’s hands.
My mother had taught me to pay attention to details. To look at the seams, the fabric, the things people tried to hide.
"May I see that?" I asked softly.
Vanessa hesitated, then handed me the crumpled paper.
I flipped it over. The back of the paper was blank, but the paper itself had a faint watermark. And in the bottom right corner, there were tiny, indented lines—as if the child had been drawing on top of a notepad, and the pen from the previous page had pressed through.
I walked over to the hallway table, grabbed a pencil, and gently shaded over the indentations.
Words began to appear in white against the graphite shading.
Southside Delivery - Unit 4B - 1142 Mercer Street.
The reversal hit me like a physical blow. The air rushed out of my lungs.
"Sophie?" Luca noticed my sudden pale face. "What is it?"
"I know this address," I whispered, my hands shaking. "It's my apartment building. Unit 4B is directly across the hall from me."
Luca’s expression hardened. Marcus hadn't just hidden the boy in a random building. He had hidden him in the building owned by the syndicate, right under the nose of one of Luca's own staff members.
"Get your coat, Sophie," Luca commanded, standing up. He looked at his head of security. "Lock down the estate. Nobody leaves. Vanessa, you stay here where it's safe."
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of a black SUV, speeding through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago. Luca was driving, his jaw clenched, a loaded handgun resting on the center console.
"Why would he hide the boy in my building?" I asked, breaking the tense silence.
"Because it’s a blind spot," Luca replied, navigating a sharp turn. "I own that building to provide subsidized housing for my staff. I never send enforcers there. It’s the last place I would ever look."
We pulled up to the crumbling brick facade of 1142 Mercer Street.
The hallway smelled of old cabbage and damp carpet. We climbed to the fourth floor in silence. Luca stood beside me as I approached Unit 4B.
The door was locked. No light leaked from beneath the crack.
Luca didn't bother knocking. He took a step back and kicked the door with terrifying force. The deadbolt shattered, and the door flew open.
Luca entered first, his weapon drawn. I followed closely behind.
The apartment was dark and smelled of stale cigarette smoke.
"Clear," Luca muttered, checking the living room.
I walked toward the small bedroom at the back. I pushed the door open gently.
Sitting on a small, dirty mattress in the corner was a little boy with messy brown hair. He was clutching a heavy, gold object to his chest, staring at us with wide, terrified eyes.
But it wasn't the boy that made my blood run cold.
Standing beside the bed, holding a suppressed pistol aimed directly at the child’s head, was a woman I recognized instantly.
It was my landlord, Mrs. Higgins.
And she cocked her weapon.
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"Shut the door, Mr. Moretti," Mrs. Higgins said, her sweet, grandmotherly voice replaced by cold steel. "Or the kid paints the wall."
TITLE: The Heavy Gold Watch
