Chapter 7 - Safehouses and South Side Secrets
The rain was coming down in blinding sheets as the three-car convoy sped north along the Edens Expressway.
Chicago was a blurred kaleidoscope of red taillights and grey asphalt through the tinted, bulletproof windows.
Matteo sat beside me in the rear seat of the lead Cadillac Escalade, his suppressed pistol resting on his thigh beneath a heavy wool overcoat.
Donna Carmela sat on the passenger side, staring out into the darkness with her rosary still wound around her fingers.
Up ahead, thirty minutes outside the city limits, lay Lake Forest.
The property was an old limestone manor purchased by Salvatore Romano forty years ago, hidden behind ten-foot brick walls and thick hemlock trees.
My phone vibrated violently inside the pocket of my uniform apron.
I pulled it out with trembling fingers.
The screen displayed a call from my brother, Leo.
I pressed the phone to my ear instantly.
“Leo? Are you okay?”
“Claire! What the hell is going on?”
Leo’s voice was cracked with adrenaline and sheer terror.
“Three men with tactical vests and automatic rifles kicked our front door open twenty minutes ago!”
“They threw Dad and me into the back of an armored truck!”
“They wouldn't let Dad grab his insulin!”
“They wouldn't let me grab my laptop!”
“Leo, listen to me,” I said, pitching my voice to be as calm and authoritative as possible.
“The men are with Mr. Romano.”
“They are protecting you.”
“Protecting us from what?” Leo yelled into the receiver.
“Claire, there was a black sedan parked across our street with two guys watching our porch with night scopes!”
“Your boss’s men shot out their tires before they dragged us into the SUV!”
“Are you in the middle of a mob hit?”
I closed my eyes, a sickening wave of guilt washing over me.
I had worked ten months to keep my family safe from this exact world.
I had scrubbed toilets, bleached linen, and taken insults from Alessandra Vale just to keep my brother in clean clothes and college lectures.
And now the violence had kicked down our front door anyway.
“I am safe, Leo,” I promised, fighting back tears.
“We are heading to a secure house in Lake Forest.”
“I will explain everything the second we arrive.”
“Just hold Dad’s hand and make sure he stays calm.”
I hung up the phone and looked out into the rain.
Matteo was watching me, his jaw set in a hard, unyielding line.
“Your brother is sharp,” Matteo said quietly.
“He’s twenty years old,” I answered, my voice bitter with exhaustion.
“He’s an engineering student, not a gangster.”
“He shouldn't have to watch men shoot out car tires in front of his childhood home.”
Matteo did not defend himself.
He simply looked out into the dark forest lining the expressway.
“In my world, Claire, innocence doesn't protect you.”
“Only firepower and leverage protect you.”
“Your father knew that when he worked the South Side docks.”
“My father was a union laborer, Mr. Romano,” I snapped, turning toward him with sudden heat.
“He worked sixty hours a week until his back broke.”
“He never carried a gun.”
“And he ended up crippled with two hundred thousand dollars of debt while the contractors bought summer homes in Geneva,” Matteo countered smoothly, his voice devoid of anger.
“The world doesn't reward softness, Claire.”
“It crushes it.”
The convoy slowed down, turning off the highway onto a narrow, unpaved gravel lane winding through dense pine trees.
Two heavily armed guards in civilian clothes emerged from the dark, illuminated by our headlights.
They lowered their rifles the moment Silas flashed the high beams three times in a rhythmic sequence.
The heavy wrought-iron gates swung open, allowing our vehicles to slip into the estate grounds.
The Lake Forest house was an imposing, three-story Tudor mansion built of grey limestone and slate tiles.
It was completely dark, save for a single light burning above the service entrance.
As our car pulled to a stop in the turnaround, the second Suburban arrived, its doors flying open instantly.
My father, Thomas Miller, stepped out into the cold drizzle, leaning heavily on his aluminum forearm crutches.
His grey hair was wild, his eyes hollow with confusion and fear, his worn flannel shirt buttoned unevenly.
Behind him came Leo, wearing a faded college hoodie, clutching his university backpack against his chest like a shield.
“Dad!” I called out, leaping from the Escalade and running across the wet gravel.
I threw my arms around my father’s neck, the familiar scent of old wood smoke, peppermint, and motor oil washing over me.
“Claire... baby, what is this?” my father rasped, his voice trembling as he held me with one strong arm.
“Whose soldiers are these?”
“They’re my employer’s men, Dad,” I whispered, burying my face into his shoulder.
“You’re safe here.”
Leo rushed to my side, grabbing my arm, his eyes wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
“Claire, they took down two guys in Bridgeport.”
“Professional shooters.”
“Who did you cross?”
Before I could answer, the rear door of the Escalade clicked open.
Matteo Romano stepped out into the rain.
He towered over the group, his black wool coat draped over his broad shoulders, his cold, aristocratic presence instantly silencing the driveway.
Silas stepped behind him, carrying Donna Carmela in her transport chair up the stone steps toward the porch.
My father froze, his grip on my shoulder tightening painfully.
Thomas Miller had lived on the South Side of Chicago for sixty years.
He knew the face of Matteo Romano.
He had seen that face in newspaper articles about port developments, union elections, and unsolved warehouse fires.
“Romano,” my father breathed, his voice dropping into a harsh, defensive growl.
“Thomas,” Matteo said, nodding with respectful distance.
“I apologize for the violence on your street tonight.”
“Your daughter just saved my mother’s life.”
“And in doing so, she became the target of people who have no honor.”
“You brought this into my house?” my father demanded, taking a limping step forward, his crutch digging into the gravel.
“I worked thirty years to keep my kids out of your family’s business!”
“Dad, stop,” I pleaded, pulling his arm.
“He’s the only reason we are breathing right now.”
Matteo did not show offense at my father’s hostility.
Instead, he bowed his head slightly.
“You have every right to be angry, Mr. Miller.”
“Your daughter is a woman of exceptional courage and intellect.”
“She acted when twenty men of my own bloodline sat paralyzed by fear.”
“I give you my personal word as the head of this family:”
“Not a hair on your children’s heads will be harmed while they are under my roof.”
“And when this war is finished, your medical debts and your son’s university tuition will be paid in full for the rest of his life.”
My father stared at the mafia boss, his chest heaving under his flannel shirt.
He looked from Matteo’s scarred face down to my torn uniform apron, recognizing the stains of blood on my cuffs.
“We don't want your blood money, Romano,” my father said, his voice cracking with stubborn, working-class dignity.
“I just want my daughter alive.”
“So do I, Thomas,” Matteo replied softly.
May you like
“Which is why we are going inside.”
“Because before the sun rises, we have to find out why my father’s ghost is helping the people who tried to murder my mother.”
