Chapter 4 - The Dead Man at Pier Twenty-NineRoman refused to take me to the pier.
I refused to stay behind.
We spent most of the next day arguing about it.
“You are not bait,” he said.
“They specifically asked for me.”
“That makes you bait.”
“That makes me necessary.”
“It makes you a target.”
“My father might be alive.”
“And if this is a trap?”
“Then I assume the internationally feared criminal mastermind standing in front of me can think of something.”
Roman stared at me.
I stared back.
Vincent coughed into his hand to hide what sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Roman pointed at him.
“Leave.”
“With pleasure.”
When Vincent disappeared, Roman walked to the window.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I think you’re used to commanding people who are paid to obey you.”
He turned.
“And you’re not.”
“Exactly.”
“You saved my child.”
“I know.”
“So I am responsible for your safety.”
“No, you feel responsible.”
“That is not different.”
“It is to me.”
Roman approached until only the kitchen island separated us.
“What do you want me to do, Claire? Hand you a coat and wish you luck?”
“I want you to stop deciding what risks I’m allowed to take.”
He studied me for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
“Fine.”
That surprised me.
“Fine?”
“You come.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“That was too easy.”
“It was.”
“What’s the catch?”
“You wear body armor.”
“Fine.”
“You stay beside Vincent.”
“Fine.”
“If shooting starts, you leave when he tells you.”
“Probably.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Claire.”
“Fine.”
“And you do not play hero again.”
“Tell people to stop shooting children near me.”
His mouth twitched.
That night Pier Twenty-Nine was almost empty.
Lake wind cut through my coat as cargo lights reflected across the black water.
Roman arrived with six men.
Vincent stayed close to me.
I wore a protective vest beneath my sweater and hated how heavy it felt.
At precisely eleven, a black SUV entered the abandoned loading area.
One man stepped out.
Then another.
Then a third.
The rear door opened.
An older man was pushed forward.
Gray hair.
Bent shoulders.
Beard.
I didn’t recognize him.
Not until he lifted his face.
My father had my eyes.
Or maybe I had his.
The world disappeared.
“Dad?”
His expression shattered.
“Claire.”
Nineteen years collapsed into one word.
I moved.
Vincent grabbed me.
“Wait.”
“That’s my father.”
“I know.”
“Let me go.”
Across the pier, Dad strained against the man holding him.
“No! Claire, stay there!”
His voice.
Older.
Rougher.
But his.
I started crying.
I hated myself for it.
I hated him for being alive.
I hated everyone who had stolen nineteen years.
Roman moved slightly in front of me.
A man stepped out beside Dad.
He was perhaps fifty.
Gray suit.
No weapon visible.
He smiled.
“Roman DeLuca.”
Roman’s voice was ice.
“Elias Crane.”
So they knew each other.
Of course they did.
Crane glanced at me.
“Daniel’s daughter. You look remarkably like your mother.”
“Give me my father.”
Crane smiled wider.
“No greeting?”
“I’m not feeling polite.”
“I see why Roman likes you.”
Roman’s posture changed almost imperceptibly.
I noticed anyway.
“He doesn’t like me.”
Crane laughed.
“Then the great Roman DeLuca has finally learned to lie badly.”
I wanted to deal with that sentence later.
Much later.
Crane held out one hand.
“The key.”
Roman said, “You release Daniel first.”
“No.”
“Then we’re finished.”
“You won’t leave.”
“I will.”
“You’ve changed.”
Roman’s eyes shifted toward Dad.
“No. I learned.”
Crane sighed.
“Daniel was always sentimental about you.”
My father laughed bitterly.
“I was sentimental about the kid you could have been.”
Crane struck him.
I lunged.
Vincent caught me again.
Roman’s voice dropped.
“Touch him again and this conversation ends.”
Crane smiled.
“There you are.”
I whispered, “What does the key open?”
Crane looked at me.
“A vault.”
“What’s inside?”
“The truth.”
“About what?”
“Your father.”
Dad shouted.
“Claire, don’t listen to him.”
Crane continued.
“About Roman’s father. About judges, politicians, companies. Records people killed to bury.”
“So why not kill me and take the key?”
“Because the key is useless without you.”
I froze.
“What?”
He gestured toward me.
“The vault uses two pieces of authentication. The key and Daniel Bennett’s bloodline.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Biometric verification.”
Dad shook his head desperately.
“Claire—”
Crane’s men tightened around him.
Roman looked at me.
“You didn’t know.”
“No.”
Crane smiled.
“Her father built the system.”
I stared at Dad.
“You built it?”
His silence answered.
Anger burned through shock.
“You disappeared for nineteen years because of a vault?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“To keep you alive.”
“You don’t get to say that!”
My voice cracked across the water.
“You don’t get to disappear while Mom worked two jobs. You don’t get to let us bury an empty coffin. You don’t get to pretend that was protection!”
Dad closed his eyes.
“You’re right.”
That answer hurt worse.
Crane looked bored.
“Family therapy is touching, but—”
A shot cracked.
Everyone moved.
Roman grabbed me and dragged me behind a concrete barrier.
More gunfire exploded from the warehouse roof.
But neither side had fired first.
A third group was attacking all of us.
“Who the hell is that?” I shouted.
Roman drew his weapon but stayed over me.
“Not mine.”
Crane’s men returned fire.
Vincent reached Dad and pulled him behind a forklift.
Someone screamed.
An SUV burst into flames.
The dock became chaos.
Roman pushed me lower.
“Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get your father.”
“Roman—”
He ran.
I watched the most feared man in Chicago cross open ground while bullets struck metal around him.
He reached Vincent.
Together they dragged Dad toward us.
Crane disappeared behind his SUV.
Then a figure emerged on the warehouse catwalk.
The shooter removed his mask.
Vincent saw him.
And stopped.
Roman saw him too.
Something like disbelief crossed his face.
I had never seen Roman frightened.
Not once.
But he looked frightened then.
“Who is that?” I asked.
Vincent whispered the answer.
“Roman’s uncle.”
Salvatore DeLuca.
According to every newspaper record I could remember, Salvatore DeLuca had been dead for twelve years.
Apparently, dead men were becoming extremely unreliable.
Salvatore raised his weapon.
But he wasn’t aiming at Roman.
He aimed at my father.
Dad shoved me down.
The shot rang out.
Dad collapsed.
“DAD!”
Blood spread across his shirt.
Roman fired toward the catwalk.
Salvatore vanished.
I dropped beside my father.
My old nursing training returned automatically.
Pressure.
Airway.
Bleeding.
“Stay with me.”
Dad gasped.
“Claire…”
“Don’t talk.”
“I need…”
“Stop.”
“Inside the key.”
“What?”
“The pendant.”
My hands shook.
“What about it?”
“It isn’t just a key.”
His eyes found Roman.
Roman knelt beside us.
Dad grabbed his sleeve.
“Your father didn’t build the empire.”
Roman frowned.
Dad coughed.
“Salvatore did.”
Then Dad looked at me.
“And he killed your mother.”
My hands stopped.
“What?”
Dad’s eyes filled with tears.
“Her death wasn’t cancer.”
Every memory of my mother’s final months flashed through my mind.
Hospital rooms.
Weakness.
Doctors.
Funeral.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“No!”
Sirens approached in the distance.
Roman caught my shoulders as I began shaking.
Dad whispered one final sentence before losing consciousness.
May you like
“Salvatore has been watching you since you were eight.”
And somewhere beyond the smoke, a dead man who had apparently controlled our lives for two decades disappeared into Chicago.
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