Chapter 12 - The Awakening of Julian Vance
The north solarium sat at the very end of a maze of fluorescent-lit hallways that smelled of industrial floor wax and despair
Tall arched windows wrapped around the perimeter of the room, looking out over an overgrown courtyard filled with dead pine needles
A dozen patients in matching gray sweatpants sat slumped in plastic chairs, staring blankly at muted television screens mounted on the ceiling
Near the far corner of the glass wall, a solitary figure sat hunched over a heavy wooden easel
He held a stick of charcoal between his stained fingers, sketching frantic, jagged lines across a large sheet of rough paper
Luca stopped dead in his tracks ten paces away from the easel, his entire body locking into rigid stillness
The young man had the same broad shoulders, the same high cheekbones, and the same dark, wavy hair as the Moretti bloodline
Yet his skin was unnaturally pale from nine years without summer sun, and a deep, jagged scar ran from his right temple down to his jawline
A thick silver chain hung around his neck, holding a small brass religious medal that had tarnished into dull green
It was nineteen-year-old Michael Moretti, transformed by nine years of chemical isolation into a hollow thirty-year-old shadow
Luca took a slow, trembling breath, the first sign of human vulnerability I had seen from the mafia don since I entered his world
He took two hesitant steps forward, his heavy boots making a faint scuffing sound against the linoleum tiles
"Michael," Luca whispered, his deep voice cracking under the impossible weight of nine lost years
The young man at the easel did not turn around
He continued scratching his charcoal violently against the paper, drawing the same image over and over again
Luca moved closer, looking over the man’s shoulder at the canvas
The rough paper was covered in dozens of sketches of a silver sports car submerged under black water, surrounded by heavy chains
Michael’s subconscious mind had spent nine years screaming the truth onto paper while his waking thoughts remained trapped in fog
"Julian," Doctor Crane called out cautiously from behind Marco’s gun barrel
"You have visitors from Chicago, Julian"
Michael slowly set the charcoal down on the wooden tray, his shoulders tensing with deep, instinctive suspicion
He turned around in his wicker chair, his dark eyes wide, dilated, and clouded with heavy prescription tranquilizers
He looked up at Luca’s towering figure, blinking rapidly against the bright glare of the morning sun through the solarium glass
"I am not allowed to receive visitors," Michael said, his voice hoarse, flat, and hollowed out by disuse
"Mistress Bellini said visitors would bring the sickness back into my head"
Luca dropped to both knees directly in front of the wicker chair, bringing his face level with his younger brother’s hollow eyes
The sight of Chicago’s most feared syndicate boss kneeling on the cold floor of an asylum tore at my heart
"Vanessa Bellini is never coming back here, Mikey," Luca whispered, using the childhood nickname their mother had given the boy
Michael flinched violently at the sound of the name, his breath catching in his chest like a wounded animal
He reached up with a trembling hand, touching the jagged scar along his temple where Dominic’s bullet had grazed his skull
"Mikey?" the young man whispered, his forehead furrowing in agonizing, painful confusion
"No... my name is Julian... I survived a train wreck in Michigan... the doctor said my parents died in the fire"
"Your parents did not die in a train wreck, little brother," Luca said, tears finally breaking free and running down his scarred cheeks
"Our father died in his bed waiting for you to walk through the front door"
Luca reached into his interior pocket, pulling out the small, framed photograph Isabella had left behind in Samuel’s leather case
He held the picture of nineteen-year-old Michael in his varsity jacket directly before the young man’s unfocused eyes
Michael stared at the glossy paper, his dilated pupils contracting as his breathing turned shallow and rapid
"That... that is The Rusty Anchor," Michael stammered, his fingers twitching toward the photograph
"Off Route Forty-One... the rain was cold... the diner was warm..."
Doctor Crane stepped forward nervously, adjusting his glasses
"Mister Moretti, his neurological pathway is deeply scarred... severe trauma and nine years of tranquilizers cannot be reversed in minutes"
Samuel Bennett stepped forward through the crowd of enforcers, his blind eyes tilted upward toward the high glass ceiling
"Music remembers what the damaged brain forgets," the old organist said softly
Samuel approached an upright wooden piano standing forgotten in the corner of the solarium, covered in dust and sheet music
He ran his gnarled, weathered hands across the yellowed ivory keys, testing the action of the worn felt hammers
Then, with gentle, aching grace, Samuel began to play a slow, sacred hymn in a minor key
It was the ancient Italian lullaby that Isabella Moretti had sung from the choir loft of Saint Catherine’s every Christmas Eve
The haunting melody floated through the sterile solarium, cutting through the chemical fog that hung over the patients
Michael’s head snapped toward the sound of the piano, his eyes widening in absolute, petrified shock
His trembling fingers rose to his chest, clutching the silver medal around his neck as tears began to stream down his pale face
"Mother..." Michael gasped, the word tearing out of his soul with a violent, agonizing sob
"She was sitting on the bench... wearing her blue wool coat... singing about the angels over the city..."
He looked back down at Luca’s weeping face, his gaze suddenly sharpening, the heavy clouds of nine years parting like mist
Michael’s calloused hand reached out, his trembling fingers touching the scar across Luca’s left eyebrow
"Luca?" Michael whispered, his voice trembling with the fragile innocence of the boy who had vanished on that pier
"You found me?"
Luca lunged forward, wrapping his massive arms around his younger brother’s neck, pulling him off the chair against his chest
Michael buried his face in Luca’s shoulder, weeping uncontrollably as nine years of stolen identity and isolation came crashing down
Every hardened enforcer in the room turned their faces away, unable to look upon the raw, sacred reunion of the Moretti brothers
Luca held his brother like he would never let him go again, his voice fierce, protective, and eternal
May you like
"I found you, Mikey," Luca wept against his hair
"And I am taking you home"
