Chapter 5 - What My Father Saw
My father had died when I was seventeen.
At least that was what I believed.
Michael Bennett.
Paramedic.
Car accident.
That was the story my mother told me.
Detective Reed found the truth before sunset.
There had been no ordinary accident.
My father’s ambulance had been forced from Lake Shore Drive twelve years earlier.
He survived the crash.
He disappeared from the hospital six hours later.
No body was ever recovered.
My mother had told me he died because someone had threatened us.
I confronted her in her small house outside Milwaukee.
She cried before I finished asking.
“Your father saw a murder,” she whispered.
“Antonio DeLuca?”
Her face answered.
Michael had been dispatched to an abandoned warehouse after an anonymous emergency call.
Antonio was alive when he arrived.
Barely.
Before dying, Antonio named his brother.
Dominic.
My father reported it.
The report disappeared.
Then men came to our home.
My mother took seventeen-year-old me and ran.
“But Ethan?”
“I don’t know him.”
“He knew me because of Dad.”
She covered her mouth.
Luca waited outside the entire time.
He never entered.
When I finally stepped onto the porch, the rain had stopped.
For the first time in days, Chicago’s sky was clear.
“I spent years believing my father abandoned us emotionally before he died,” I said.
Luca leaned against the car.
“And I spent twelve years believing mine died because I wasn’t strong enough to protect him.”
“You were what, twenty-four?”
“Twenty-five.”
“That wasn’t your responsibility.”
“Neither was your father’s disappearance yours.”
I looked at him.
“Annoying when someone uses your own logic against you.”
A tiny smile touched his mouth.
“Very.”
It was the first peaceful moment we had shared.
It lasted forty-three seconds.
Then Luca’s phone rang.
His expression hardened.
“Dominic knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That we opened Samuel’s files.”
We returned to Chicago under police coordination.
Dominic disappeared.
Ethan disappeared too.
For three days, nothing happened.
I stayed at Maya’s apartment.
Luca called once every evening.
Never more.
He didn’t ask where I was.
He asked one question.
“Are you safe?”
By the fourth night, I began waiting for those calls.
That frightened me.
Not because of Luca.
Because I had spent six months confusing possession with affection.
I didn’t trust my instincts anymore.
So when Luca invited me to dinner, I said no.
“All right,” he replied.
That was it.
No persuasion.
No wounded ego.
No pressure.
Twenty minutes later, I called him back.
“Actually…”
“Yes?”
“Coffee.”
A pause.
“Public place.”
“Yes.”
“Daytime.”
“Yes.”
“I drive myself.”
“Yes.”
I frowned.
“You’re making this difficult.”
“How?”
“You’re agreeing with everything.”
His low laugh surprised me.
“You’re setting boundaries, Claire. They’re not negotiations.”
That was the moment I began falling for him.
Not when he stopped six SUVs.
Not when he stood between Ethan and me.
Not when he offered protection.
When he accepted no.
Our coffee lasted two hours.
Luca told me his mother had died when he was young.
He told me he hated olives, loved old jazz records, and secretly cooked better pasta than anyone in his family.
I told him I talked to unconscious patients because silence made intensive care feel cruel.
He watched me with an expression I couldn’t name.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
“You keep taking care of people even when nobody’s watching.”
Heat climbed my face.
“You command convoys.”
“That is significantly less charming.”
I laughed.
Then the café window exploded.
Luca moved before the sound registered.
He threw himself over me.
People screamed.
A bullet struck the wall.
His men rushed inside.
“Shooter across the street!”
Luca lifted his head.
Blood darkened his shoulder.
“Luca.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“I’m a nurse. Never say that to a nurse.”
Despite the chaos, he almost smiled.
Then another shot hit the building.
I pressed my hand against his wound.
“Stay down.”
His gaze fixed on my face.
For once, Chicago’s most feared man obeyed me.
Later, police found the shooter’s position.
No shooter.
Only a rifle and a phone.
The phone contained one message.
BRING THE FILE TO THE OLD MERCY HOSPITAL OR MICHAEL BENNETT DIES TONIGHT.
I read it three times.
“My father is alive.”
Detective Reed said nothing.
Luca did.
“We’re going to find him.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
He frowned.
I took Samuel’s flash drive from Reed.
“They want me.”
“Claire—”
“This started with my father.”
Luca stepped closer.
“And it ends with you alive.”
I met his eyes.
“Then help me do it my way.”
For several seconds, the old Luca DeLuca—the man accustomed to giving orders—fought with the man who had promised not to become someone I needed to run from.
Finally, he nodded.
May you like
“Your way.”
And together, we began planning a trap.
