Chapter 2 - THREE KNOCKS
The three knocks came again.
Slow.
Measured.
Not loud enough to wake the entire building.
Just loud enough to tell the person inside that whoever stood on the other side had no intention of leaving.
Trent stared toward the front door.
I lay half-curled beside the shattered coffee table, one arm wrapped around my ribs, trying to breathe without making noise.
“What the hell?”
His voice was thick with sleep.
Then he looked at me.
For one terrible second, confusion crossed his face.
After that came understanding.
His eyes dropped to the dead phone still trapped beneath my fingers.
“You called someone.”
I shook my head.
Not because it was true.
Because fear had trained me to deny everything before I knew what answer would keep me safest.
Trent crossed the room.
Bare feet.
Gray sweatpants.
No shirt.
The same man who had been snoring peacefully after kicking me until I coughed blood.
He bent down.
“Who did you call?”
“I didn’t.”
Another knock.
Three times.
Trent grabbed my wrist.
Pain shot all the way up my arm.
“Who?”
“I sent a text.”
“To who?”
“My brother.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Ben?”
I nodded.
Technically, I had tried.
Trent released me so suddenly my hand hit the carpet.
“You stupid bitch.”
He walked toward the kitchen drawer where he kept a pistol.
That was when I understood something important.
Whoever was outside frightened him.
Ben would not have frightened Trent.
Police would have made him angry.
But the sound of several engines arriving below?
Three controlled knocks?
Trent was afraid.
He pulled the gun from the drawer.
My heartbeat went wild.
“Go to the bedroom.”
I did not move.
“Clara.”
Another voice came through the door.
Male.
Calm.
“Open the door, Trent.”
Trent froze.
I forgot my ribs.
Forgot the blood.
Forgot how difficult breathing was.
The stranger knew his name.
Trent slowly raised the gun.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Silence.
Then—
“You know.”
The color left Trent’s face.
I watched it happen.
He lowered the gun slightly.
“No.”
The man outside continued.
“You have five seconds.”
Trent turned toward me.
The hatred in his expression changed.
Became suspicion.
“What did you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You called him?”
“I don’t know who he is.”
“Bullshit.”
“Trent, I swear—”
“One.”
The voice outside.
Trent looked at the door.
“Two.”
He rushed toward me.
Not toward the bedroom.
Toward me.
His fingers closed around my hair.
I screamed before I could stop myself.
Pain ripped through my side as he dragged me upward.
“Three.”
Trent pressed the gun beneath my jaw.
Everything stopped.
I could smell alcohol on his skin.
Could feel his fingers shaking.
“You tell him to leave.”
I could barely breathe.
“Trent—”
“Tell him.”
“Four.”
Trent shouted toward the door.
“You come through that door, she dies!”
Silence.
For half a second, I thought it had worked.
Then the stranger answered.
“No.”
One word.
Almost bored.
Trent’s grip tightened.
“What?”
“You won’t shoot her.”
“You want to test me?”
“You need her.”
Trent went completely still.
I did too.
The stranger continued.
“That’s why she’s still alive.”
Something cold moved through me.
What did that mean?
Trent looked at me.
Then at the door.
“You don’t know anything.”
“I know exactly what you took.”
Trent’s breathing became shallow.
“And I know you haven’t found it yet.”
I stared at him.
Found what?
“Five.”
The door exploded inward.
Not kicked.
Not smashed.
The entire lock assembly tore out of the frame with one violent metallic crack.
Three men entered.
The first two wore black jackets.
Large.
Fast.
Guns drawn.
The third man walked behind them.
No visible weapon.
Dark charcoal coat.
Black shirt beneath it.
Tall.
Maybe thirty-eight.
Dark hair.
A thin scar ran from the edge of his right eyebrow toward his temple.
He did not look like a hero.
That was my first thought.
Heroes rushed.
Heroes shouted.
This man entered my apartment as though the room already belonged to him.
His eyes found Trent.
Then the gun under my jaw.
Something in his face changed.
Barely.
But everyone felt it.
“Put it down.”
Trent dragged me backward.
“Stay the fuck away.”
The stranger stopped.
His gaze shifted to me.
Not my face first.
My ribs.
The blood.
The broken glass.
Then my face.
“Clara?”
I stared.
He knew my name because of the text.
“Yes.”
“You can breathe?”
“Barely.”
His jaw hardened.
“Did he kick you?”
I nodded.
Trent jerked my hair.
“Stop talking.”
The stranger looked at his hand in my hair.
Then back at Trent.
“I’m going to give you one opportunity to make tonight less stupid than it already is.”
Trent laughed.
It sounded broken.
“You can’t touch me.”
The stranger’s expression remained empty.
“That sentence has never been true.”
One of the men beside him moved slightly.
Trent pressed the pistol harder beneath my chin.
“Back up!”
Nobody moved.
The stranger said—
“Clara.”
My eyes met his.
“When I say down, drop.”
Trent laughed again.
“She can barely stand.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to—”
“Down.”
I let my legs disappear beneath me.
Trent had not expected it.
Neither had I.
My body hit the floor.
Pain exploded through my side so violently that my vision turned white.
At the same instant, one of the men rushed Trent.
The gun fired.
The sound destroyed the room.
A bullet struck the wall above the television.
Someone hit Trent from the side.
He crashed into the kitchen counter.
The gun slid beneath a chair.
Everything happened in seconds.
Trent swung once.
Missed.
The larger man drove him face-first onto the floor.
“Hands!”
Trent screamed.
“Get off me!”
The stranger never even looked at him.
He came toward me.
Kneeled.
“Don’t move.”
I tried to push myself away.
Instinct.
Men coming toward me meant danger.
He stopped immediately.
Both hands visible.
“Okay.”
His voice changed.
Still low.
But softer.
“I won’t touch you.”
That mattered.
I didn’t know why.
He looked at the blood on my shirt.
“How long ago?”
“What?”
“The beating.”
“Maybe an hour.”
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“I don’t know.”
“Clara.”
“I don’t know.”
He looked toward one of his men.
“Call an ambulance.”
The man hesitated.
“Boss—”
“Now.”
Boss.
The word registered.
Trent heard it too.
He started laughing from the floor.
“Oh, she really doesn’t know.”
The stranger turned.
“What?”
Trent’s face was pressed against the carpet.
Still he smiled.
“Tell her.”
No one spoke.
Trent looked at me.
“You sent your little rescue text to Luca Moretti.”
The name meant nothing for half a second.
Then it did.
Not because I knew him personally.
Because everyone in certain parts of Chicago knew the name.
Moretti.
Restaurants.
Construction.
Waste contracts.
Nightclubs.
And rumors.
Lots of rumors.
Ben once mentioned him after treating a shooting victim outside a club in River North.
“The Morettis don’t call police unless they want police there.”
I looked at the man kneeling ten feet away.
Luca Moretti.
My pulse climbed.
Trent laughed.
“You asked the goddamn Moretti boss to save you.”
Luca looked at me.
I could not read his expression.
I whispered—
“Oh my God.”
He said—
“Not exactly.”
“What?”
“You texted me.”
I stared.
“That number…”
“Mine.”
“You’re—”
“Yes.”
I tried moving backward again.
Pain stopped me.
Luca remained where he was.
“You said you were coming.”
“I was.”
“Why?”
Something crossed his face.
Gone too quickly to identify.
“Because you said you couldn’t breathe.”
As if that explained everything.
It didn’t.
Behind him, Trent started shouting.
“She has it!”
Luca turned.
One of his men twisted Trent’s arm behind him.
Trent screamed.
“Stop.”
Luca’s voice.
The man stopped immediately.
Luca walked toward Trent.
“What does she have?”
Trent’s face changed.
“I don’t know.”
“You just said she had it.”
“I was talking shit.”
Luca crouched.
“You are very bad at lying when frightened.”
Trent looked at me.
Then away.
Luca followed the glance.
He stood.
“What did he ask you about tonight?”
I shook my head.
“Nothing.”
“Before he hit you.”
I thought.
Trent had come home furious.
He accused me of moving something.
At the time, I thought he meant money.
He had been tearing through drawers.
My purse.
Closets.
The hall cabinet.
Then he demanded—
“Where did you put the blue key?”
I had no idea what he meant.
I told Luca.
“A blue key.”
The entire room went still.
One of Luca’s men muttered something in Italian.
Luca looked at Trent.
“You lost it.”
Trent said nothing.
“What key?” I whispered.
Luca ignored the question for a moment.
Then the sound of sirens grew in the distance.
His men looked toward the window.
Trent smiled.
“You gonna stay for cops, Luca?”
Luca glanced at him.
“No.”
Fear passed through me.
“You’re leaving?”
He looked at me.
“The ambulance is coming.”
“What about him?”
Luca considered Trent.
Then reached down.
Removed Trent’s wallet.
His phone.
The man holding Trent released him.
Trent rolled onto his side.
He looked confused too.
“You’re letting him go?”
Luca said—
“No.”
Then sirens stopped outside.
Red and blue light filled the apartment.
Luca’s men moved toward the back door.
Luca remained.
He took out a card.
Placed it on the carpet near my hand.
No name.
Just a number.
The number I had accidentally texted.
“You already know how to reach me.”
I stared.
“Why would I?”
“Because Trent wasn’t beating you over jealousy tonight.”
My stomach tightened.
“He was looking for something.”
“I don’t have anything.”
“I believe you.”
Trent shouted—
“She’s lying!”
Luca ignored him.
He looked toward the front entrance as firefighters and paramedics climbed the stairs.
Then back at me.
“Do not go home after the hospital.”
“This is my home.”
“No.”
His expression became grim.
“It isn’t safe anymore.”
Before I could answer, paramedics entered.
One dropped beside me.
Female.
Red hair.
“Ma’am, I’m Kelly with CFD. Try not to move.”
Another man came behind her carrying equipment.
I saw his face.
For a second, neither of us breathed.
Ben.
My brother stopped in the broken doorway.
His eyes moved from me—
to the blood—
to Trent—
to Luca Moretti.
Then his face collapsed.
“Clara?”
The sound of my brother saying my name broke whatever strength I had left.
“Ben.”
He crossed the room.
Dropped beside me.
His hands hovered because he knew not to touch until he understood the injuries.
“Oh my God.”
“I’m sorry.”
His face twisted.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
Tears filled his eyes.
“Not right now.”
Behind him, police officers pushed into the apartment.
Questions began.
Weapons.
Hands.
Movement.
When I looked back toward the kitchen—
Luca Moretti was gone.
Only his card remained on the carpet.
And somewhere beneath the pain, beneath the fear, beneath my brother’s shaking hands, one thought stayed with me.
The stranger had known Trent was looking for something.
May you like
Something called a blue key.
And Trent had nearly killed me trying to find it.
