Chapter 2 - The Name My Mother Never ExplainedRoman DeLuca lived thirty floors above Chicago.
Technically, it wasn’t his home.
It was the private penthouse level of the Armand Hotel, another building everyone knew belonged to him even though the paperwork probably said otherwise.
I sat inside a marble bathroom while a private doctor stitched the cut on my forearm.
Outside the door, two armed men stood guard.
And somewhere beyond them was a six-year-old boy who refused to sleep until he knew I was okay.
My life had gotten extremely strange in less than an hour.
“Three stitches,” the doctor said.
“That’s all?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m wondering whether I can still work tomorrow.”
He stared at me.
“You were caught in a shooting.”
“My landlord accepts rent, not trauma.”
The doctor gave me the sort of look people with money gave people who didn’t have any.
He finished wrapping my arm.
“You should rest.”
Sure.
I’d schedule that between my lunch shift and the evening wedding reception.
When I entered the sitting room, Leo was curled beneath a blanket on an enormous couch.
The plastic dinosaur remained clutched in his hand.
Roman stood at the windows speaking quietly with a silver-haired man.
The older man looked at me first.
Roman followed.
“You should be in bed,” Roman told Leo.
Leo sat upright.
“Is Claire okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
He studied my bandage.
“You got hurt because of me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I sat beside him.
“I got a scratch because some idiot broke a lot of glass. You didn’t do anything.”
His serious little face tightened.
“You jumped on me.”
“That sounds worse when you say it like that.”
Leo smiled.
Tiny.
Brief.
But real.
Roman noticed.
The silver-haired man did too.
Roman pointed toward him.
“This is Vincent Morelli. He handles security for my family.”
Vincent extended his hand.
“You were brave tonight.”
“I was nearby.”
“Most nearby people ran.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Roman did.
“Where did the photograph come from?”
Vincent’s expression changed.
“We’re working on it.”
“And the message?”
“Same answer.”
Roman clearly hated that answer.
I rose.
“Well, thank you for the doctor. I should go home.”
“No,” Roman said.
It wasn’t loud.
It still sounded like a locked door.
I faced him.
“I’m not asking.”
“Neither am I.”
“Mr. DeLuca—”
“Roman.”
“I’m definitely not calling you Roman.”
Leo giggled.
Roman’s eyes narrowed at his son, who immediately pretended to be extremely interested in his dinosaur.
I folded my arms.
“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t know you.”
“Someone photographed you outside your apartment.”
“I understand that.”
“Someone carrying that photograph opened fire in a ballroom where my son was standing.”
“I understand that too.”
“Then you understand why you are not going back to an unsecured apartment.”
I hated that his logic made sense.
“I have a roommate.”
“No, you don’t.”
I froze.
Roman continued.
“Apartment 3C. North Ashland. Your roommate moved to Milwaukee six weeks ago.”
Anger replaced fear.
“You investigated me?”
“I had six minutes.”
“You had someone investigate me in six minutes?”
Vincent looked almost apologetic.
“He’s very efficient.”
I stared at them.
“This is insane.”
Roman approached slowly.
“Yes.”
His voice softened.
“And you should be frightened.”
“I am.”
“Good. Fear keeps careless people alive.”
“I’m not careless.”
“I know.”
His eyes dropped briefly toward my bandaged arm.
“That is why my son is alive.”
Silence spread between us.
Then Vincent’s phone vibrated.
He read something and looked up sharply.
“Roman.”
One word.
Roman understood immediately.
“What?”
“We identified the man whose credentials were used to enter the service corridor.”
“Name?”
Vincent glanced at me.
That made my stomach tighten.
“What is it?” I asked.
The older man didn’t answer.
Roman did.
“Tell her.”
Vincent handed him the phone.
Roman read the screen.
For the first time all evening, the color seemed to leave his face.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“Your father’s name was Daniel Bennett?”
My lungs tightened.
“Yes.”
“Construction worker?”
“He died when I was ten.”
Roman looked at Vincent.
“Show her.”
I took the phone.
There was an old employee record.
DANIEL BENNETT.
My father.
Same gray eyes.
Same crooked smile I remembered.
But the employer wasn’t the construction company my mother had always named.
The screen showed:
DELUCA MARITIME HOLDINGS — INTERNAL SECURITY DIVISION.
I read it twice.
Then again.
“This isn’t possible.”
Roman’s expression was unreadable.
“My father poured concrete.”
“No.”
“You didn’t know him.”
Roman looked toward Vincent.
Vincent answered carefully.
“I did.”
The floor seemed to shift.
“You knew my father?”
“He worked for Roman’s father.”
“For how long?”
“Almost twelve years.”
My throat dried.
“My mother said he worked construction.”
“He did,” Vincent said. “That was the cover.”
I laughed because the alternative was screaming.
“Cover for what?”
Neither man answered quickly enough.
I stood.
“What did my father do?”
Roman’s voice was quiet.
“He kept people alive.”
“What does that mean?”
“He was security.”
“For your family?”
“For mine.”
My eyes moved from Roman to Vincent.
“And tonight someone attacked your son while carrying my picture.”
“Yes.”
“Which means?”
“We don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“No,” Roman agreed. “It isn’t.”
Leo climbed off the couch and silently came to stand beside me.
I barely noticed until his hand touched mine.
That child had known me for an hour and somehow understood I needed someone.
Roman noticed that too.
Vincent’s phone vibrated again.
He looked down.
Then his expression hardened.
“What now?” Roman demanded.
“We searched the attacker’s vehicle.”
“And?”
Vincent looked directly at me.
“There was a storage key inside.”
He placed a small brass key on the table.
A faded paper label hung from it.
I knew the handwriting instantly.
My mother’s.
Three numbers.
317.
I reached for it.
Roman caught my wrist.
“Don’t.”
“That belonged to my mother.”
“We don’t know what it opens.”
“That’s exactly why I’m going.”
“No.”
I met his stare.
“You can either come with me or spend the night wondering where I went.”
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then Roman released my wrist.
Vincent sighed.
“I already hate this partnership.”
“We are not partners,” Roman and I said simultaneously.
Leo smiled.
Twenty minutes later, we were inside an armored SUV crossing Chicago.
The storage facility was on the western edge of the city.
Unit 317 hadn’t been opened in nineteen years.
The manager nearly fainted when Roman walked into his office.
A guard cut the rusted secondary lock.
The metal door rolled upward.
Inside sat one dusty wooden box.
Nothing else.
My mother’s handwriting was across the lid.
FOR CLAIRE — WHEN THEY COME BACK.
My knees almost gave out.
Roman caught my elbow.
I pulled away.
Not because I didn’t need the support.
Because I did.
And needing anything from Roman DeLuca felt dangerous.
I opened the box.
Inside were photographs.
A newspaper clipping.
An old cassette recorder.
And a sealed envelope.
On the front, my mother had written:
Claire, if you are reading this, Daniel did not die in an accident.
The room stopped breathing.
I tore the envelope open.
There was only one page.
Four handwritten lines.
Your father discovered something inside the DeLuca organization.
He died trying to expose it.
Do not blame Roman. He was only nineteen.
Trust the boy with the scar.
My eyes slowly lifted.
Roman touched the scar beside his eyebrow.
May you like
Neither of us spoke.
Because nineteen years after my father’s death, my mother had just reached from the grave and told me to trust the most dangerous man in Chicago.
Related Stories
