Chapter 4 - THE MUSIC BOX
The antiseptic smell of the hospital room suddenly felt suffocating. I stared at the silver lapel pin in Gabriel’s massive palm, then down at the crude doodle on Leo’s sketchpad.
They were identical.
“He was here,” I whispered, panic rising in my throat. “The man who shot you was sitting right next to my little brother.”
Gabriel closed his fist around the pin. He didn’t look angry; he looked dangerously focused. He stepped toward the bed, keeping his voice incredibly soft so as not to frighten Leo.
“Leo,” Gabriel asked gently. “Did this man say anything else? Did he leave anything behind?”
Leo frowned, thinking hard. “He said the woods were full of secrets. He asked if Grandpa ever gave me anything to hold onto. I told him no.” Leo paused, his brow furrowing beneath the halo brace. “But he did leave something. He dropped it when a nurse walked in.”
Leo reached over to his bedside table, opening the top drawer. He pulled out a crumpled, velvet bag and handed it to me.
I opened it and tipped the contents into my hand.
It was a small, ornate winding key. The kind used for antique clocks. Or music boxes.
My breath hitched.
“Claire?” Gabriel asked, watching my face. “Do you recognize it?”
“It goes to a music box,” I said, my voice shaking. “My grandfather’s music box. It’s been sitting on the mantle in my childhood home for as long as I can remember. The key went missing years ago. We thought we lost it.”
Gabriel’s dark eyes locked onto mine. “The map. The X near the creek bed. They aren’t looking for something buried in the dirt, Claire. They’re looking for whatever is hidden inside that box.”
“But the box is at my parents' house in the city,” I said. “Why draw a map of the upstate property?”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “Because whatever is in that box proves what’s buried on the property. And Callahan sent his best hitman to find it.”
He turned toward the door. “We need to get to your parents' house. Now.”
He instructed two of his men to stay in Leo’s room. “Nobody comes in. Nobody but the medical staff, and you verify every ID. Understood?”
“Yes, boss,” the guards replied in unison.
We practically ran back to the SUV. The drive to my parents' small, modest home in the suburbs was a blur of anxiety. My mind spun in circles. Luke, Callahan, the hitman, my grandfather’s useless land. How did it all connect to a twenty-five-million-dollar bribe?
Gabriel was on his phone the entire ride, issuing clipped, rapid-fire orders in Italian. He was locking down his estate, moving money, securing his men. He looked every bit the ruthless mob boss the city feared. Yet, when he ended the call, he looked at me and his expression softened just a fraction.
“We will find it, Claire,” he said quietly. “I won’t let them touch your family.”
We pulled up to my parents’ house. The front door was slightly ajar.
Gabriel put a hand on my chest, stopping me before I could get out of the car. He drew a heavy, matte-black pistol from inside his jacket.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered.
We crept up the front steps. Gabriel pushed the door open with his cane.
The living room had been ransacked.
Books were pulled from shelves. Cushions were sliced open. The floral wallpaper my mother loved was ripped in jagged strips.
But sitting perfectly untouched in the center of the splintered coffee table was the wooden music box.
“They didn’t take it,” I breathed, stepping forward.
“They couldn’t open it,” Gabriel said, scanning the room. “They found it, but they didn’t have the key. And forcing it open might destroy whatever is inside.”
I took the winding key from my pocket. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it. I slid the key into the small brass lock on the side of the box.
It turned with a heavy click.
I opened the lid. The familiar, tinny melody of Für Elise began to play, a chilling soundtrack to the devastation around us.
Inside the box was a false bottom. I pried it up with my fingernail.
Beneath the velvet lining lay a single, faded Polaroid photograph and a folded piece of yellowed paper.
I picked up the photograph.
It showed two men standing in the woods—the exact woods on my grandfather’s property. One of the men was Senator Richard Callahan, looking twenty years younger. The other man was Gabriel’s father, the late Don Moretti.
Between them, resting on the hood of a classic car, was a massive, open duffel bag filled with stacks of cash.
“Your father was bribing the Senator,” I whispered.
Gabriel stared at the photo, but he shook his head. “Look closer. Look at the shadows. Look at who took the picture.”
I peered closely at the bottom edge of the Polaroid. A shadow was cast across the dirt. The silhouette of the photographer.
It was a woman holding a small child by the hand.
“My mother,” I gasped. “She took the picture.”
“And the child is you,” Gabriel said grimly.
I unfolded the yellowed paper. It wasn't a letter. It was a receipt of sale.
Twenty years ago, my grandfather had sold a small portion of his land—the creek bed marked on Leo's map—to Senator Callahan. But the signature on the deed wasn’t my grandfather’s. It was a forgery.
“Callahan didn't just take a bribe,” Gabriel realized, his voice turning to ice. “He used the bribe money to illegally buy the land, hide the transaction, and bury something there. Something so toxic he’s willing to kill my entire family to keep it hidden.”
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Gabriel spun around, raising his gun.
A figure stepped out of the shadows.
It wasn't a hitman. It wasn't Callahan.
It was Luke.
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His clothes were disheveled, and he held a revolver pointed directly at Gabriel’s chest.
“I’m sorry, brother,” Luke said, tears streaming down his face. “But I didn't set you up five years ago. Callahan forced me to do it. He has something of mine, too. And if I don’t bring him that box right now… Isabella is dead.”
