Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Fourth FloorThe bell above the street-level door of Bellini Jewel Restoration chimed with a cheerful, grating ring that felt entirely out of place given the tension suffocating the second-floor apartment.
Maso vanished down the metal staircase to investigate, his hand resting instinctively beneath his suit jacket where his Glock was holstered. Leah paced the narrow length of my workbench, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
“We need to go to the authorities,” Leah argued, stopping to look down at me. “Adriana, if there's been a murder or a kidnapping linked to your husband's syndicate, and your ring was at the scene... you are an accessory the moment they trace that serial number.”
“Which authorities, Leah?” I asked bitterly, picking up a brass pair of jeweler's tweezers and gently turning the damaged band over. “The Chicago Police Department is half-owned by Alessandro’s shipping conglomerates. The federal agents who try to build a case against him end up transferred to Alaska or buried under mountains of red tape. If I walk into a precinct, I won't be treated as a witness. I’ll be handed back to Alessandro wrapped in a polite, legal bow.”
“Then what do you propose we do? Sit here and wait for his hit squad to show up?”
“I propose we fix what’s broken,” I whispered, staring at the deep dent in the gold. “That's what my father taught me. When a piece of metal is deformed under pressure, you don't throw it away. You anneal it. You heat it up until it softens, relieve the internal stress, and hammer it back into its true shape.”
Before Leah could reply, Maso reappeared at the top of the stairs. He wasn't alone.
Tucking himself behind Maso’s broad frame was a young man no older than twenty-two. He wore an oversized courier jacket, his face pale, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold a crumpled brown envelope.
“This was shoved through the mail slot downstairs two minutes ago,” Maso said, stepping aside. He didn't look at the kid; he looked at me. “Brought by a private bicycle courier who was paid a hundred cash to drop it off and run.”
I stood up from my stool, my knees feeling slightly weak. I walked over to the workbench where Maso laid the envelope down. It was unsealed.
Using my tweezers, I carefully slid the contents out onto the white velvet pad.
It wasn't a note. It wasn't a ransom demand.
It was a key.
An old-fashioned, heavy brass skeleton key with a distinct clover-shaped head. Tied to the handle of the key with a scrap of silver satin ribbon—the exact same fabric as Camila’s dress from the birthday party—was a luggage check ticket from the Union Station downtown, locker number 412.
“Do you recognize it?” Leah asked, leaning in.
I shook my head slowly. “No. But I recognize the ribbon. It’s from Camila’s dress.”
Maso stared at the brass key, his expression darkening into a lethal scowl. “I know that key. Or rather, I know what it opens.”
“Where?” I demanded.
“The fourth floor of the old Romano shipping warehouse by the harbor,” Maso said grimly. “It was Alessandro’s grandfather’s private office before the syndicate modernized. It hasn't been used in over a decade. It’s offline, completely stripped of security cameras, and heavily soundproofed. It’s where Alessandro keeps things—and people—he wants the world to forget exist.”
I looked from Maso to the brass key, then down at the blood-stained wedding ring.
May you like
The illusion of my safe, quiet escape shattered completely. I hadn't run away from Alessandro’s world last night. I had just scratched the surface of it.
“Get your coat, Leah,” I said, my voice dropping into a cold, resolute register that surprised even myself. “Maso, check your piece. We’re going to Union Station first, and then we’re paying a visit to the fourth floor.”
