Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO CHOSE THE WRONG MORETTI
Vincent Russo had twenty seconds to decide whether he belonged to Luciano Moretti or me.
I knew because another engine sounded somewhere beyond the trees.
Not Claire’s pickup.
Not a tractor.
Another heavy vehicle.
Coming fast.
Vincent heard it too.
His face changed.
Claire pulled Lily toward the garage.
I kept my gun trained at Vincent’s chest.
His phone still glowed in his hand.
DO NOT LET ADRIAN LEAVE THAT PROPERTY WITH THE WOMAN OR THE CHILD.
My uncle had not written Claire.
He had written the woman.
He had not written Lily.
He had written the child.
That told me everything I needed to know about how Luciano saw them.
Not family.
Evidence.
Problems.
Objects that needed to be contained.
“Who’s coming?” I asked.
Vincent looked toward the road.
“Two men.”
“Names.”
“Paolo Greco and Martin Vale.”
I knew both.
Paolo ran security at one of our warehouses.
Martin had driven my mother to church for three years.
Men who had shaken my hand.
Men I had trusted because my uncle had trusted them first.
“How far?”
Vincent swallowed.
“Maybe thirty seconds.”
“Were they told to kill Claire?”
“No.”
“Lily?”
“No.”
“What were they told?”
He looked at the message again.
“Make sure nobody leaves.”
Claire laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“That worked beautifully for my father.”
Vincent flinched.
Good.
The engine grew louder.
I looked toward Claire.
“Inside.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“My daughter is not hiding in a house while armed men walk onto my property.”
I stared.
“This is not the time to prove independence.”
“It’s exactly the time.”
Lily whispered,
“Mom?”
Claire immediately softened.
She crouched.
“Garage office.”
Lily’s face tightened.
“But—”
“Now.”
The child looked at me.
Then Vincent.
Then the road.
Six years old.
Smart enough to understand nobody was discussing the weather.
“Code red?”
Claire froze.
I looked at her.
Claire nodded.
“Yes.”
Lily ran.
Not toward the house.
Toward a small side door inside the detached garage.
Interesting.
Claire noticed my expression.
“Storm shelter.”
Good mother.
The second SUV appeared through the trees.
Black Escalade.
Same organization plates.
My organization.
Vincent looked at me.
“Adrian.”
“What?”
“I need my weapon.”
I almost laughed.
“You want me to arm the man who came here under orders to detain me?”
“If I intended to follow the order, I would have drawn already.”
That was true.
Vincent had exited the vehicle with his jacket open.
His pistol remained holstered.
He had seen Claire.
Recognized her.
Then lost control of his face.
That recognition had disrupted whatever plan he arrived with.
The Escalade stopped behind Vincent’s.
Paolo stepped out.
Martin exited the passenger side.
Both men immediately noticed my gun.
Paolo’s hand moved toward his jacket.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
“Boss.”
“Interesting word today.”
Paolo glanced at Vincent.
“Everything okay?”
“No.”
I looked directly at him.
“Why are you here?”
“Mr. Luciano said you might need assistance.”
“Luciano is not my employer.”
Paolo’s face tightened.
“No, sir.”
“Then answer again.”
A pause.
“We were told you discovered something sensitive.”
Claire whispered,
“Something?”
Paolo looked toward her.
That was his mistake.
His eyes stayed half a second too long.
Recognition.
Not of Claire personally.
Of the situation.
He knew enough.
I saw it.
“So you knew about them too.”
Paolo shook his head.
“No.”
“Bad lie.”
Martin took one step sideways.
Vincent finally spoke.
“Martin.”
The man stopped.
Vincent’s voice changed.
“Don’t.”
Paolo looked toward him.
“Luciano said—”
“I know what Luciano said.”
Vincent slowly removed his own phone.
He threw it onto the gravel between us.
Then lifted both hands.
“Adrian.”
I kept my gun steady.
“I helped Isabella disappear.”
Claire stopped breathing.
Everything froze.
Paolo whispered,
“Vincent.”
Too late.
Vincent continued.
“I was nineteen.”
Claire stared.
“You helped my mother?”
“Yes.”
“You said Salvatore told you we were dead.”
“He did.”
“How could both be true?”
Vincent looked toward the road.
“We don’t have time.”
Paolo’s jaw hardened.
“That’s enough.”
He reached.
Vincent moved faster.
His pistol cleared first.
No shot.
Just aim.
At Paolo.
The entire balance changed.
Martin raised his hands.
Paolo stared at Vincent.
“Think carefully.”
Vincent laughed bitterly.
“I have been thinking carefully for thirty-four years.”
His eyes moved toward Claire.
“And it has not improved my sleep.”
He looked at me.
“If we stay here, Luciano sends more.”
“How many know?”
“Enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this property is burned.”
Claire’s face changed.
Her house.
Her garage.
Her garden.
Lily’s bedroom.
The hidden life she had built far enough from Moretti history that her daughter could walk dirt roads carrying a wrench instead of learning which adult lies were dangerous.
Now the secret was gone.
Claire whispered,
“I’m not leaving.”
Vincent looked at her.
“You have to.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Do not use my name like you have a right.”
He stopped.
She continued.
“My mother ran.”
“My father disappeared.”
“I grew up changing addresses because of your family.”
Her eyes filled.
“I am done running.”
I understood.
I also understood something she did not.
Standing still only counts as bravery when the people hunting you agree to fight fairly.
Luciano never had.
I lowered the gun slightly.
“Claire.”
She looked at me.
“I am not asking you to disappear.”
“Then what?”
“I’m asking you to leave for one night.”
“Why?”
“Because right now your six-year-old daughter is in a storm shelter because men connected to my family drove onto your land.”
That landed.
Her face broke slightly.
I continued.
“You can come back.”
“If the house is still here.”
Paolo said nothing.
Wrong choice.
I looked at him.
“Was there an order about the house?”
His silence answered.
Claire went white.
Vincent cursed.
“What order?”
Paolo looked toward him.
“You chose.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“Yes.”
“I did.”
Paolo moved.
The shot came from the trees.
Not Paolo.
Not Martin.
Somebody else.
The garage window shattered.
Claire ducked.
Vincent fired toward the tree line.
I dragged Claire behind her pickup.
“Stay down.”
“Lily.”
“She’s protected.”
Another shot hit metal.
Paolo shouted,
“There’s another team!”
Vincent looked at him.
“You knew?”
“No!”
For once, I believed him.
Luciano had sent overlapping teams.
Insurance.
Meaning he did not completely trust Vincent, Paolo, or Martin.
Smart.
Paranoid.
Family tradition.
A third vehicle sat somewhere beyond the bend.
Men moved among trees.
I counted two.
Maybe three.
Not enough information.
Too much open ground.
Claire whispered,
“There’s another way out.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“Old logging road behind the garage.”
“Vehicle access?”
“My pickup.”
“Armored?”
She stared.
“It’s a twelve-year-old Ford.”
“Right.”
“Sorry my farm truck doesn’t meet mafia standards.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Vincent shouted from behind his SUV,
“Adrian!”
“What?”
“Go!”
“You?”
“I’ll slow them down.”
I stared.
“Why?”
His face twisted.
“Because I was there when your aunt ran.”
Claire stopped.
Vincent looked at her.
“And I spent thirty-four years believing Salvatore when he said she died anyway.”
He swallowed.
“I’m not helping them erase her daughter too.”
That was not redemption.
Not yet.
But it was a choice.
I looked toward Paolo.
He had taken cover beside Vincent.
Martin too.
Luciano’s first team had apparently realized they were expendable as well.
Interesting what gunfire does to loyalty.
“Claire.”
She looked at me.
“Get Lily.”
We moved.
Inside the garage, Claire opened the storm-shelter door.
Lily sat on the bottom step holding a flashlight in one hand and a tire iron in the other.
I stared.
“Is that necessary?”
She looked offended.
“Code red.”
Claire grabbed her.
“We’re going.”
Lily’s face changed.
“Where?”
“Somewhere safe.”
“What about home?”
Claire stopped.
I saw the moment she almost lied.
Then didn’t.
“We may have to stay somewhere else for a little while.”
“Why?”
Claire looked toward me.
I crouched.
“Because some men made bad decisions.”
“Moretti men?”
That hurt more than it should have.
“Yes.”
Lily looked at Claire.
“Are we Moretti too?”
Claire closed her eyes.
“Not now.”
“We’ll talk later.”
The rear garage door opened onto a narrow track.
Claire’s pickup started immediately.
Of course it did.
She maintained engines better than I maintained half my relationships.
I put Lily in the back.
Claire drove.
I sat beside her.
Gunfire sounded behind us.
Lily ducked automatically.
My stomach turned.
No child should know to do that.
“Drive.”
Claire did.
The truck bounced hard over ruts.
Branches scraped both sides.
No cell signal.
Still.
At the top of the ridge, one bar appeared.
I called the only person outside Luciano’s immediate influence I still trusted.
Daniel Velez.
My attorney.
Not a captain.
Not family.
“Adrian?”
“I need a house.”
“What happened?”
“Not on the phone.”
A pause.
“How many people?”
“Three.”
“Children?”
“One.”
His voice changed.
“I’ll send an address.”
“No Moretti security.”
“Understood.”
“Daniel.”
“Yes?”
“If Luciano calls you—”
“I’ve represented you twelve years.”
“That was not my sentence.”
He sighed.
“I won’t tell him anything.”
Good.
We drove south.
Behind us, smoke eventually rose above the trees.
Claire saw it in the mirror first.
She stopped breathing.
“No.”
Lily leaned forward.
“Mom?”
Claire pulled onto the side of the logging road.
Her hands started shaking.
The smoke grew.
Dark.
Thick.
Direction of the farmhouse.
Her home.
“No.”
She opened the door.
I caught her wrist.
“Claire.”
“My house.”
“I know.”
“My mother’s things.”
“I know.”
“My father’s garage.”
Her voice broke.
“Lily’s room.”
I let go of her wrist.
Not because I wanted her to run back.
Because she had spent her entire life having Moretti men decide where she could go.
I would not add my hand to that list.
“Going back now could get Lily killed.”
Claire froze.
That was the only argument that mattered.
She looked toward her daughter.
Lily stared at the smoke.
Then whispered,
“Did our house catch fire?”
Claire’s face collapsed.
“Yes, baby.”
“Because of us?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Claire turned toward her.
“Because of people who made terrible choices.”
Lily’s eyes filled.
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
Claire climbed into the back.
Held her daughter.
I sat in the passenger seat while their home burned somewhere behind us.
I felt something I had rarely permitted myself.
Shame.
Not for pulling a trigger.
Not for ordering violence.
For belonging to a family whose secrets had reached a six-year-old girl’s bedroom.
Claire eventually returned to the driver’s seat.
Her face was wet.
Her voice steady.
“Where are we going?”
I gave her Daniel’s address.
Then she looked at me.
“You said I can come back.”
“Yes.”
“What if there’s nothing left?”
I had no useful answer.
So I gave her the only one I trusted.
“Then I will help you rebuild.”
Her expression hardened immediately.
“I don’t want Moretti money.”
Of course.
“Then I’ll help with my hands.”
Claire stared.
I looked at the road.
“For the record, I am extremely bad with tools.”
For the first time since the gunfire began, Lily laughed.
A tiny sound from the back seat.
Claire almost smiled.
Almost.
Then my phone buzzed.
Vincent.
One message.
WE’RE ALIVE.
A second followed.
HOUSE IS GONE.
A third.
LUCIANO THINKS YOU’RE HEADING SOUTH.
Then one final line.
I KNOW WHERE THOMAS BELL DIED.
Claire saw my face.
“What?”
I turned the phone toward her.
She read.
Her hands tightened around the steering wheel.
For thirty-four years, Claire Bell had not known where her father took his last breath.
May you like
Now the man who helped bury her family had apparently decided to show us where the first grave was.
And somewhere behind us, Luciano Moretti had burned a house to make sure we never got there.
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