Chapter 6 - The Greyhound on Platform Nine
Luca charged directly into the path of the reversing Greyhound, heedless of the screeching asphalt and blinding halogen headlights.
The heavy bus lurched to an abrupt, violent halt with a sharp hiss of compressed air brakes.
The driver slammed open his side window, leaning out into the driving Chicago sleet with veins bulging along his neck.
“Are you completely out of your mind, pal?” the driver roared, pounding his palm against the steering column.
“Get out of the driving lane before I call transit police to drag your corpse off the concrete!”
Luca didn't flinch, nor did he bother offering an explanation.
He stepped deliberately toward the pneumatic entrance doors, rain streaming off his soaked tailored collar and running down his jawline.
Marco rushed up behind him, reaching beneath his wet coat to flash a gold law-enforcement liaison badge and a thick clip of hundred-dollar bills.
“Open the doors right now, driver,” Marco ordered with quiet, terrifying precision.
“Special transit clearance. We have a passenger retrieval under active security protocol.”
The bus driver took one look at Marco’s unblinking posture and Luca’s deadly glare, swallowed hard, and pulled the pneumatic lever.
The folding glass doors hissed open with a rush of stale, warm air that smelled of damp wool, gasoline fumes, and cheap upholstery.
Luca bounded up the narrow metal stairs two at a time, his drenched leather shoes squeaking loudly against the ribbed rubber mats.
I followed right behind him, heart rattling violently against my ribs, shivering from both the biting wind and the raw tension inside the bus.
Inside, forty weary passengers blinked in stunned confusion beneath the harsh fluorescent ceiling strips.
Crying infants hushed, truckers rubbed their tired eyes, and tired commuters shrank back into their vinyl seats as Luca swept his gaze down the center aisle.
There, four rows from the very back beside an emergency exit window, sat a small figure huddled under a paper-thin institutional travel blanket.
Her battered cardboard suitcase was wedged tightly beneath her knees on the filthy floorboards.
She was leaning her forehead against the vibrating, rain-splattered glass, clutching a half-eaten dry biscuit wrapped in a paper towel.
Luca stopped dead in his tracks midway down the narrow carpeted aisle.
The terrifying mafia kingpin who had ordered hits on rival syndicates and dictated city zoning with a whisper suddenly looked like a terrified, heartbroken child.
“Mama,” Luca whispered, his voice cracking beneath the hum of the idling diesel engine.
The old woman flinched slightly, thinking she was dreaming beneath the monotonous drone of the engine.
She turned her head slowly, adjusting the transparent Scotch tape holding her reading glasses together.
When her rheumy, gentle brown eyes focused on the tall, soaked man standing before her, the dry biscuit slipped from her fingers onto her lap.
“Luca?” she breathed, her voice trembling with sheer disbelief.
“Luca, sweetheart, what are you doing out in the freezing rain? You’re soaking wet, child!”
Her first instinct wasn't to demand why she had been hidden in a cellar, nor was it to express anger at being cast aside.
Her hands immediately reached into her cloth purse, pulling out a faded cotton handkerchief to dab at his drenched cheekbones.
Luca sank down onto his knees directly into the dirty aisle sludge, wrapping his massive arms around her fragile waist.
He buried his face into the faded knit yarn of her blue sweater, his broad shoulders shaking with silent, agonizing sobs.
The entire bus went dead silent, nobody daring to make a sound as the most dangerous man in Illinois wept at an old woman’s knees.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” Luca choked out, his voice muffled by the wool of her cardigan.
“I’m so sorry. I didn't know. God help me, I didn't know you were down there.”
Mrs. Moretti looked utterly bewildered, her frail, work-calloused hands gently stroking his dripping black hair.
“Oh, hush now, Luca. It’s alright, baby. Miss Vanessa explained everything to me.”
“She said you had senators and bank governors at your table, and I didn't want my dusty old shoes embarrassing you before your partners.”
Luca pulled back, his eyes bloodshot with an agonizing mixture of fury and bottomless guilt.
“You could never embarrass me, Mama. Never in this life or the next.”
“Everything I built, every dollar in my accounts, every stone in that mansion belongs to you.”
He stood up, gently lifting her paper-thin frame from the worn vinyl seat as if she were made of spun glass.
“We are going home, Mama.”
“Home?” she asked softly, glancing at the battered cardboard suitcase under the seat.
May you like
“Yes,” Luca said, turning to look back toward where I stood in the aisle.
“And tomorrow morning, we are burning down every lie that poisoned my household.”
