Chapter 3 - The House on West Addison
The rain had turned into a sleet storm by the time the vintage black Cadillac pulled out of the iron gates of the Moretti estate.
The streets of Chicago were slick, black ribbons reflecting the amber glare of sodium vapor streetlights.
Sal sat behind the heavy steering wheel with his back straight, navigating the icy intersections of Fullerton Avenue with effortless muscle memory.
Luca sat in the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield wipers.
In the spacious back seat, Vanessa sat pressed against the left door, clutching her damp evening coat around her bare shoulders.
I sat on the far right, holding a small thermos of hot black coffee that Sal had asked me to bring from the pantry.
The silence inside the car was thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the rhythmic thumping of the wipers against the glass.
Every time the tires slipped slightly on the slush, Sal corrected the wheel with a gentle, imperceptible flick of his wrists.
“The rear defroster is still weak on the right side, Luca,” Sal remarked quietly, breaking forty minutes of silence.
Luca didn’t turn his head.
“I told the garage boys to replace the heating coils three months ago.”
“Those kids don't know how to work on old copper wiring,” Sal said with a soft sigh.
“They just plug in a computer and scratch their heads when the screen doesn’t tell them what to do.”
A ghost of a smile touched Luca’s lips for half a second before vanishing into the shadows of the dashboard.
Vanessa leaned forward, her voice cracked and pleading.
“Luca, please, we can’t just walk in there in the middle of the night.”
“My brother Marco has two men watching the perimeter from an unmarked sedan.”
Luca’s hand moved down to the inside pocket of his tailored overcoat, checking the heavy weight of his automatic pistol.
“Marco is twenty-four years old and has never held a territory in his life,” Luca said coldly.
“If your brother’s men point a barrel toward this car, they will not see the sunrise over the lake.”
Vanessa sank back into the leather seat, burying her face in her hands.
Twenty minutes later, Sal turned the long sedan down a quiet, tree-lined residential street on the Northwest side.
The houses here were narrow, two-story wood-frame bungalows built in the 1920s, with steep roofs and small front porches.
Snow and sleet covered the lawns in patchy, dirty white sheets.
Halfway down the block, Sal killed the Cadillac’s headlights and let the heavy vehicle coast silently to the curb beneath the shadow of a bare elm tree.
Three houses ahead, a dull yellow light shone through the lace curtains of a first-floor living room.
Parked directly across the street from the house was a black Chevrolet Tahoe with tinted windows, its tailpipes emitting faint plumes of exhaust into the freezing air.
“There they are,” Sal murmured, his eyes fixed on the Tahoe in the rearview mirror.
“Two boys in the front seat.”
“Engine running to keep the heater going.”
Luca unbuttoned his coat and looked at Sal.
“Stay in the car with Emma and Vanessa.”
Sal reached down to the space between the front bench seat and the floorboard, pulling out a heavy, rubber-coated tire iron.
“I didn't drive thirty miles through freezing rain to sit in the car like a tourist, kid.”
Luca looked at the old man’s weathered face and saw the same unyielding stubbornness that his father had possessed.
“Five yards behind me, Sal,” Luca conceded quietly.
“Not an inch closer.”
Luca opened the door and stepped out into the freezing slush, his leather shoes sinking into the mud at the curb.
Sal opened his door with equal stealth, holding the heavy steel iron along his thigh beneath the folds of his coat.
I watched from the rear window as the two men moved up the sidewalk like shadows.
The passenger door of the black Tahoe across the street suddenly clicked open.
A young man wearing a heavy down parka and a baseball cap stepped out into the sleet, chewing a toothpick.
“Hey! Who told you to park on this block?” the guard yelled, stepping into the street with his hand buried deep in his jacket pocket.
Luca didn’t stop walking.
He didn’t even change his pace.
When the young guard reached the center of the asphalt, Luca closed the distance in three long strides.
Before the guard could draw his weapon, Luca’s left hand shot out like an iron vise, grabbing the collar of the down jacket and jerking the young man forward off balance.
In the same fluid motion, Luca’s right fist drove upward into the man’s solar plexus with brutal, professional precision.
The guard’s breath exploded from his lungs in a ragged gasp, his knees folding beneath him instantly.
Sal stepped up from behind, caught the guard by the scruff of his coat before he hit the asphalt, and slammed him face-first against the rear fender of the Tahoe.
With practiced efficiency, Sal reached into the man’s jacket, slid a nine-millimeter Glock from its holster, dropped the magazine onto the wet pavement, and tossed the cleared weapon into a snowbank.
“Driver’s side is getting out,” Sal warned calmly.
The driver of the Tahoe kicked his door open and raised a short-barreled shotgun.
“Drop it, you old bas—”
Sal didn’t hesitate.
He swung the heavy steel tire iron in a flat, sweeping arc, striking the driver’s wrist with a sickening crack.
The shotgun clattered uselessly onto the icy curb.
The driver screamed, clutching his broken wrist to his chest and stumbling backward into the driver's seat.
“Go home to your mother, son,” Sal said, breathing lightly through his nose.
“You’re not built for this work.”
Luca didn’t look back at the downed guards.
He was already walking up the wooden steps of the clapboard house on West Addison.
The front porch creaked beneath his weight.
Before he could raise his knuckles to knock, the inside deadbolt clicked.
The heavy wooden door opened three inches, held by a brass security chain.
A pale, wrinkled face peered through the crack—a woman in her late sixties with silver hair pulled back into a tight bun and wire-rimmed glasses resting on her nose.
Her eyes went wide with sheer terror when she recognized Luca’s face under the porch light.
“Mr. Moretti…” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Open the door, Nora,” Luca said softly.
“Please, sir, Don Antonio told me if anyone came—”
“Nora,” Sal called out as he climbed the porch steps, tossing the tire iron into a wicker chair.
“It’s Sal.”
The old woman gasped, her gaze shifting to the chauffeur.
“Sal Russo?”
“It’s all right, Nora,” Sal said gently, stepping beside Luca.
“The boy is safe.”
“Vincent’s boy is here.”
With trembling hands, the old nurse slid the brass chain free and pulled the door wide open.
The warm air of the house smelled heavily of menthol, rubbing alcohol, and eucalyptus steam.
In the center of the living room, a portable oxygen machine hummed with a low, rhythmic pulse, sending clean air through clear plastic tubing that disappeared down the hallway.
Luca stepped into the hallway, pulling off his leather gloves.
At the end of the short corridor, a small bedroom door was painted pastel yellow.
Sitting on the edge of a small bed, illuminated by a nightlight shaped like an airplane, was a little boy with dark, messy curls and enormous hazel eyes.
He wore flannel pajamas with printed race cars.
Across his lap lay a small plastic fire truck, its miniature ladder extended.
When he heard the heavy footsteps in the hallway, the little boy looked up.
His chest heaved with a shallow, wheezing breath that whistled painfully through his small throat.
He looked past Luca’s tall frame, peering directly into the dark living room where Vanessa had just staggered through the front door.
The little boy’s face instantly lit up with pure joy.
He dropped the plastic toy onto the braided rug and held up his small arms.
“Mama!” he cried, his voice hoarse and strained from coughing.
“Mama, you came back!”
Luca stood completely frozen in the doorway of the bedroom, his eyes fixed on the little boy’s left hand.
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The child was wearing a single red wool mitten on his left hand.
The right hand was bare, its small fingers reaching eagerly into the empty air.
