Chapter 8 - The Vault on LaSalle
The Ford sedan screeched around the corner of LaSalle and Adams, its worn tires sliding across the wet tram tracks before biting into the asphalt.
The pursuing Cadillacs were two blocks behind, held up momentarily by a delivery truck that Frank had aggressively cut off on Wacker Drive.
“We have five minutes, boss,” Frank said, his knuckles white against the steering wheel as blood dripped from his split lip onto his overcoat.
“The federal task force will have this entire financial district surrounded by sunrise.”
Hazel jumped out of the car before it had completely stopped in front of the monolithic limestone facade of Northern Trust Bank.
She opened the rear door, helping Callum slide his legs out onto the rain-slicked pavement.
He was pale as marble, the makeshift silk bandage soaked in dark red, but his eyes were hard as forged steel.
“The night deposit vault,” Callum said, leaning heavily on Hazel’s shoulder as they hurried toward the private commercial entrance beneath the granite archway.
“The security director is Marcus Kane. He was on my father’s payroll for twenty-five years.”
Hazel took the heavy brass key ring from Callum’s coat pocket.
She punched the four-digit emergency bypass code into the keypad beside the heavy bronze security gate.
The electromagnetic lock released with a deep clunk.
They slipped inside the warm, cavernous lobby of the historic bank just as the sirens of the federal convoy began to wail in the distance toward Michigan Avenue.
Marcus Kane, a silver-haired man in an immaculate navy blazer, stepped out from the private elevator alcove, his hand resting on the holster of his service pistol.
“Mr. Sullivan,” Kane said, his eyes widening as he took in Callum’s blood-soaked shirt and Hazel’s torn clothing.
“The federal district attorney called my home twenty minutes ago. They’ve issued a freeze order on all Sullivan holdings.”
“The freeze order doesn’t apply to Box 414, Marcus,” Callum said, leaning his good shoulder against the marble teller counter.
Kane’s jaw went slack.
“Box 414? Arthur told me that box was never to be opened unless both families stood before the vault.”
Hazel stepped forward, her chin lifted, her voice cutting through the silent bank lobby with absolute authority.
“I am Hazel Reed. Daughter of Daniel Reed. The legal heir to the Reed estate.”
Kane looked between Hazel and Callum for five agonizing seconds.
He drew a slow breath, turned on his heel, and unlocked the heavy steel gate leading to the basement deposit vault.
Downstairs, forty feet below the streets of Chicago, the vault was a tomb of polished stainless steel and twenty-ton gear mechanisms.
Kane led them to the far corner of the vault, where a large dual-key deposit locker sat behind a heavy iron grill.
Kane inserted the master key into the upper lock.
“You need the two original keys, Mr. Sullivan.”
Callum pulled the silver key from his chain and handed it to Hazel.
Then Hazel reached into the small locket she had worn beneath her blouse for ten years—a locket Callum had seen every single day without ever asking what was hidden inside.
She extracted a tiny, notched brass key.
Her hands were shaking.
“Ten years,” she whispered, her fingers hovering over the keyhole.
“My father told me to swallow this key if the men with black overcoats ever came to our home.”
“I carried it through foster care, through college, and into your office.”
“Put it in, Hazel,” Callum said gently, his left hand covering hers over the cold steel.
“Let’s finish what our fathers started.”
Together, they turned the keys simultaneously.
The heavy brass mechanism clicked inside the door.
The locker swung open.
Inside lay a single, thick leather folder tied with black ribbon, alongside a verified legal affidavit stamped by the federal district court in 2004.
Hazel pulled the documents into the light.
Her eyes scanned the opening page, and the breath left her body in a sharp gasp.
“Callum... look at the date.”
Callum leaned over her shoulder, his vision swimming, focusing on the yellowed ink beneath Arthur Sullivan’s bold signature.
The document was not an arson contract.
It was a sworn deposition signed by Arthur Sullivan three days before Daniel Reed died.
It stated that Arthur had discovered Don Carmine Bertinelli’s plan to burn the lumber yard with twenty union workers inside to collect the maritime insurance policy.
Arthur had paid Daniel Reed two hundred thousand dollars to stay home that night, promising that Sullivan’s men would secure the site.
Daniel Reed had gone to the yard anyway to warn the night watchman—and Bertinelli’s arsonists had locked him inside.
Arthur Sullivan hadn’t murdered her father.
He had failed to save him.
And for twenty years, Arthur had kept the truth hidden to protect Hazel and Julian from the Bertinelli family’s hitmen.
Tears blurred Hazel’s vision as the paper shook in her hands.
“My father... he went back to save the watchman.”
“Arthur spent twenty years funneling his private profits into an offshore trust for you and Julian,” Callum said quietly, his voice breaking.
“He took the blame from the streets because if Bertinelli knew Daniel’s children had the evidence, you wouldn’t have lived to see your tenth birthday.”
The heavy iron door of the basement vault suddenly clanged open behind them.
May you like
Standing at the top of the stairs, drenched in rain, with blood soaking through his ruined trousers and a pistol in his hand, stood Julian Vance.
Behind him stood Carmine Bertinelli himself, flanked by four armed enforcers.
