Chapter 12 - The Last Train to Cicero
By late afternoon, the federal marshals had completed their final sweep of the estate, loading boxes of evidence into the back of an unmarked black van parked near the front gates.
The media had not yet caught wind of the full scale of the raid, but rumor vans from local Chicago news stations were already beginning to park along the outer perimeter wall, their satellite dishes raised toward the gray sky like metallic insects.
I stood in the staff locker room in the basement, packing my modest canvas bag with my spare uniforms, a pair of flat walking shoes, and the paperback book on European history I had been trying to read for three months.
The heavy wooden door stood open.
Mrs. Carter walked in, carrying a large brown cardboard box filled with kitchen supplies.
She stopped, leaning against the doorframe, and watched me zip up my bag.
“Are you really leaving, Julia?” she asked, her voice carrying a rare touch of warmth.
I looked around the small, sterile room where I had spent eleven months hiding my bruises, swallowing my pride, and praying for my next paycheck.
“My shift is over, Mrs. Carter,” I said softly, slinging the canvas strap over my shoulder.
“And my father is waiting for me at home in Cicero with his afternoon tea.”
“Mr. Moretti has a car waiting in the rear courtyard,” Mrs. Carter noted, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips.
“He doesn't want you taking the public bus with your eye still bandaged.”
I hesitated, my hand resting on the zipper of my bag.
“I can take the bus, Mrs. Carter.”
“The bus is cold, Julia,” a deep voice echoed from the hallway outside.
I turned around.
Luca Moretti stood in the doorway, his coat over his arm, his shirtsleeves still rolled up.
He didn't look like the ruthless mob boss who had terrified twenty-four elite guests beneath the chandeliers last night.
He looked like a man who had finally laid down a burden he had been carrying for half his life.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said, dipping my head.
“Luca,” he corrected gently, stepping into the small room.
“The car is warmed up.”
“And the driver has instructions to take you directly to your father’s apartment.”
“You don't have to do this, sir,” I murmured, looking down at the scuffed toes of my shoes.
“I know,” Luca replied, his voice dropping into that quiet, steady tone that left no room for argument.
“That’s why I’m doing it.”
He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against my shoulder as he guided me toward the corridor.
“Besides,” Luca added with the ghost of a smile.
May you like
“I need to inspect the heating bill on your kitchen counter myself.”
“To make sure it’s paid in full.”
