Chapter 3 - The Man with the Silver Scar
At 12:23 a.m., Adriano's penthouse became silent enough to hear rain touching the glass.
Michael Moretti.
Adriano's uncle.
His father's younger brother.
The man who had taught him how to drive.
The man who had attended every birthday after Adriano's father died.
The man who had managed Apex's legitimate finances for twelve years.
Carmichael wanted Adriano to believe Michael had ordered Lara's death.
Which meant one of two things.
Either Carmichael was lying.
Or Adriano's family had been rotting from the inside longer than he understood.
“You're lying,” Adriano said into the phone.
Carmichael laughed.
“That's what I would say too.”
“If Michael wanted Lara dead, he wouldn't need you.”
“No.”
Carmichael's voice sharpened.
“But if he wanted you to blame me, he would.”
Adriano's eyes narrowed.
“What do you want?”
“Finally.”
A faint sound of a lighter came through the phone.
“Now we're having an intelligent conversation.”
“What do you want?”
“The drive Lara kept.”
“You already have one.”
“The one Boyle recovered was useless.”
Interesting.
Adriano glanced at Vincent.
Carmichael continued.
“Quarterly reports. Employee records. Nothing valuable.”
“So you hit the wrong woman for the wrong drive.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
Carmichael did not answer.
Instead he said, “Bring me Lara's drive tomorrow at midnight.”
“Where?”
“I'll call.”
“And if I don't?”
“You'll spend the rest of your life wondering which member of your family arranged your father's death.”
Adriano stopped breathing.
Vincent saw the change in his face.
Carmichael ended the call.
For several seconds, Adriano remained motionless.
Vincent spoke first.
“What did he say?”
Adriano put down the phone.
“Find Boyle.”
“Alive?”
Adriano looked at him.
“Very.”
The next six hours turned Chicago into a hunting ground.
Arthur Boyle had disappeared from Carmichael's known properties.
His apartment was empty.
His phone had been abandoned near Cicero.
A black armored Maybach matching Paulie's description was found burning inside an industrial lot near the Calumet River.
But Boyle himself was gone.
At 6:42 a.m., Frank Salerno received the first useful lead.
Boyle had a sister.
Marianne.
She owned a small bakery in Elmwood Park.
Adriano refused to threaten her.
Instead Frank quietly watched the building.
At 8:17 a.m., a gray pickup stopped behind the bakery.
Arthur Boyle stepped out.
Twenty-three minutes later, he woke tied to a metal chair inside an abandoned Moretti warehouse.
Adriano entered alone.
Boyle looked exactly as Lara had described.
Large.
Gray eyes.
A silver scar running from beneath his left ear toward his collarbone.
“You should have killed me already,” Boyle said.
Adriano removed his coat and folded it over a chair.
“If I wanted you dead, Arthur, we wouldn't be talking.”
Boyle smiled.
“Then you need something.”
“I need the truth.”
“That usually costs more.”
Adriano placed a photograph of Lara on the table.
Not injured.
A company photograph taken at an Apex charity event.
Boyle's smile faded slightly.
“You hit her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Orders.”
“Whose?”
Boyle looked away.
Adriano sat across from him.
“Carmichael?”
No answer.
“Michael Moretti?”
Still nothing.
Adriano leaned forward.
“Arthur, understand something. You are currently alive because Lara is alive.”
Boyle looked at him.
“If she stops breathing…”
Adriano's expression hardened.
“…our conversation ends differently.”
Boyle swallowed.
“Carmichael told me to scare her.”
“By driving a four-ton armored car into her?”
“He told me to hit her low. Break her leg. Make it look worse than it was.”
Adriano stood so quickly Boyle flinched.
“You ruptured her spleen.”
“I know.”
“You shattered her femur.”
“I know.”
Adriano's fists tightened.
Boyle's voice became defensive.
“She stepped backward. The pavement was wet. The car slid.”
Adriano stared at him with such controlled hatred that Boyle looked away.
“Who told you where she would be?”
“I don't know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I swear.”
“Who gave Carmichael her route?”
“Someone called him.”
“Who?”
“I wasn't in the room.”
Adriano moved closer.
“But you heard something.”
Boyle hesitated.
“He called whoever it was Mike.”
Adriano felt his stomach tighten.
Michael.
“He said, ‘Your niece knows too much.’”
Adriano froze.
“Niece?”
Boyle nodded.
“That's what he said.”
“Lara is not Michael's niece.”
“I know.”
“Then why would he say that?”
Boyle stared at him.
“Maybe you should ask your uncle.”
Adriano stepped away.
There was something else.
“Why take the drive?”
“Carmichael wanted it.”
“What did he think was on it?”
“Proof.”
“Of what?”
Boyle laughed bitterly.
“You really don't know.”
Adriano's patience disappeared.
He grabbed Boyle by the collar.
“Know what?”
“Your father.”
The warehouse became silent.
Boyle's eyes met his.
“Carmichael has been digging into the old Moretti murder for months.”
Adriano released him slowly.
His father, Antonio Moretti, had been killed eighteen years earlier leaving a restaurant in River North.
Two shooters.
One black sedan.
No arrests.
Adriano had been seventeen.
He had inherited nothing immediately except grief and a name people expected him to defend.
Over the years, he had been told the murder came from a rival organization that no longer existed.
“What does Lara have to do with my father?”
Boyle shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“You said the drive had proof.”
“That's what Carmichael said.”
“Proof of what?”
“That Antonio Moretti wasn't killed by a rival family.”
Adriano's jaw tightened.
“Who killed him?”
Boyle looked directly at him.
“Someone in yours.”
Hours later, Adriano returned to Lake Forest.
Lara was awake.
Barely.
Her right leg had been stabilized after a second operation. Her face looked pale against the pillow, and bruising had spread across her temple.
When she saw him, something eased in her expression.
“You look terrible,” she whispered.
Adriano almost laughed.
“You're criticizing my appearance?”
“Your suit.”
Her eyes moved toward the dried blood.
“Ruined.”
“I own another.”
“Several hundred, probably.”
Her voice was weak.
Adriano moved closer.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I lost an argument with a truck.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Lara remembered.
“The drive.”
“Safe.”
She exhaled.
“Good.”
“You knew someone was leaking information.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Lara looked away.
“I wasn't sure who.”
“You could have told me that.”
“And watched you lock down half of Chicago?”
“I might have.”
“Exactly.”
Adriano sat beside the bed.
“Lara.”
Her eyes returned to him.
“Why does Carmichael think your drive contains information about my father's murder?”
Her expression changed.
That was enough.
“You knew.”
“Adriano—”
“What did you find?”
She closed her eyes.
“Please don't do this while I'm half-drugged.”
“Then tell me enough to understand why someone tried to kill you.”
Lara remained silent.
Adriano leaned closer.
“Boyle said Carmichael called someone after the attack.”
Her eyes opened again.
“He called him Mike.”
Lara's breathing changed.
“He also said the man referred to you as his niece.”
Now Lara looked frightened.
Not for herself.
For Adriano.
“Lara.”
She swallowed.
“Michael Jenkins wasn't my biological father.”
Adriano stared at her.
“What?”
“The man who raised me.”
“Yes.”
“He adopted me when I was two.”
Adriano said nothing.
“I didn't know until my mother died four years ago.”
She looked toward the ceiling.
“She left documents.”
“What documents?”
“A birth certificate.”
Adriano's heart began pounding.
“Whose name?”
Lara looked at him.
“My mother's.”
“And your father?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Antonio Moretti.”
Everything inside Adriano stopped.
No.
His father's name.
His father.
Lara watched disbelief spread across his face.
“I spent years thinking it had to be a mistake.”
Adriano stood.
“My father had another child?”
“A daughter.”
He stared at her.
She was twenty-eight.
He was thirty-five.
Seven years apart.
Possible.
He thought of his father's long business trips.
Arguments between his parents he never understood.
Secrets adults stopped discussing whenever he entered a room.
“You're saying…”
His voice failed once.
Lara's lips trembled.
“I'm your sister.”
Adriano stepped backward.
The room tilted.
Lara continued before he could respond.
“I found DNA records six weeks ago. Michael Moretti knew.”
“Michael knew?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
Lara's eyes closed.
“Since I was born.”
Adriano remembered Carmichael's words.
Your niece knows too much.
Michael Moretti was Lara's uncle.
Just as he was Adriano's uncle.
Adriano felt eighteen years of memories rearrange themselves.
Then Lara whispered something worse.
“The flash drive isn't only about the money.”
“What is on it?”
“Letters.”
“From who?”
“Our father.”
Adriano's breathing stopped.
“He knew someone close to him was planning to betray him.”
Lara's hand slowly reached toward him.
“And the final letter was written the night before he died.”
Adriano stared at her.
“What does it say?”
Tears gathered in Lara's eyes.
“It names the person he was afraid of.”
“Who?”
Before Lara could answer, the recovery-room door opened.
Vincent stood there.
His face was pale.
“Leo.”
Adriano turned.
“What?”
Vincent held his phone.
“We have a problem.”
“What kind?”
“Michael Moretti disappeared.”
Adriano's expression hardened.
Vincent continued.
“His house is empty.”
A beat.
“So is his office.”
Then Vincent raised the phone.
“And security footage shows him leaving Apex two hours before Lara was hit.”
“Where did he go?”
Vincent swallowed.
May you like
“Carmichael's house.”
---
