Chapter 3 - HE FOUND THE WRONG ENEMY
Vincenzo reached New Mexico eighteen hours too late.
Not because Celeste had run again.
Because someone had tried to take her.
Ruth Mercer’s front window was shattered.
A chair lay overturned on the porch.
Blood marked the wooden railing.
Vincenzo stepped from the SUV and felt the world narrow to a single point.
“Whose blood?”
Enzo answered quickly.
“Not hers.”
That was the only reason the next thirty seconds did not end with someone dead.
“What happened?”
“Two men approached the house around midnight. Ruth saw them first. Apparently Mrs. Duca had already made preparations.”
Vincenzo looked at him.
“What preparations?”
“She bought bear spray, replaced the locks, and kept Ruth’s truck facing the road with a full tank.”
Vincenzo almost laughed.
Of course she had.
“She sprayed the first man. Ruth hit the second with a fireplace shovel.”
Vincenzo stared.
Enzo cleared his throat.
“Ruth is seventy.”
“I heard you.”
“They escaped through the back and drove south.”
“Where is Celeste now?”
“We don’t know.”
The fragile amusement vanished.
Vincenzo entered the house.
On the kitchen table sat the photograph someone had left for Celeste.
He turned it over.
HE ISN’T THE ONLY ONE LOOKING.
Vincenzo recognized the message for what it was.
Not a warning.
A performance.
Someone wanted Celeste frightened.
Someone wanted Vincenzo chasing.
His phone rang.
Valentina.
He watched the name illuminate the screen.
Then answered.
“Vince?”
Her voice was soft.
Concerned.
Perfectly rehearsed.
“I heard Celeste left. I’m so sorry.”
Vincenzo said nothing.
“I never wanted—”
“Where are you?”
A pause.
“My apartment.”
“Stay there.”
He disconnected.
Enzo looked at him.
“You believe she’ll stay?”
“No.”
“She’ll run?”
“I hope so.”
Vincenzo turned toward the door.
“Because then she’ll lead us to Rinaldi.”
Three hours later, Valentina left her Gold Coast apartment through the underground garage.
She changed vehicles twice.
Vincenzo’s men followed without being seen.
The trail ended at an abandoned textile warehouse outside Cicero.
Rinaldi was waiting.
So was Vincenzo.
Valentina entered the warehouse and stopped dead.
Vincenzo sat in a chair beneath a single hanging light.
No guards visible.
That frightened her more than an army would have.
“Vincenzo.”
“Sit.”
“I can explain.”
“You knew Celeste was pregnant.”
Valentina’s face changed.
Only slightly.
Enough.
“How?”
“I heard something.”
“From whom?”
“Vince—”
“Don’t call me that.”
She swallowed.
“Rinaldi had someone inside the clinic.”
“And you brought yourself into my home because he told you to.”
“No.”
“Then tell me which part was your idea.”
Valentina’s eyes filled.
Months earlier, those tears might have worked.
Now Vincenzo could only think of another woman who had refused to shed hers in front of him.
“I loved you.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You wanted what standing beside me could give you.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Fair?”
His voice remained low.
“My pregnant wife disappeared because I humiliated her inside her own home, and you’re asking me about fair?”
Valentina flinched.
Vincenzo leaned forward.
“Where is Rinaldi?”
“I don’t know.”
A gunshot cracked somewhere outside.
Valentina screamed.
Vincenzo did not move.
Enzo entered.
“Rinaldi’s gone.”
Vincenzo’s eyes never left Valentina.
“Then she’s useful again.”
Valentina went pale.
Meanwhile, Celeste was three hundred miles away, driving Ruth’s truck through a winter storm.
Ruth sat beside her with a bandage around one wrist.
“You know,” Ruth said, “when your mother told me you married a dangerous man, this wasn’t what I pictured.”
Celeste gripped the wheel.
“What did you picture?”
“Better suits.”
Celeste laughed despite everything.
Then she cried.
Not dramatically.
One tear.
Then another.
“I loved him.”
Ruth looked through the windshield.
“I know.”
“I think part of me still does.”
“That’s usually what makes leaving difficult.”
Celeste touched her stomach.
“I don’t want my child growing up believing love looks like that.”
“Then don’t teach them that.”
Simple.
Brutal.
True.
They reached a roadside motel outside Albuquerque shortly after midnight.
Celeste paid cash.
Room 17.
She checked the windows twice.
Locked the door.
Placed a chair beneath the handle.
At 2:13 a.m., someone knocked.
Celeste woke instantly.
Ruth reached for the fireplace poker she had inexplicably insisted on bringing.
Another knock.
“Celeste.”
She froze.
A man’s voice.
Familiar.
“Celeste, open the door.”
Her heart hammered.
She approached without unlocking it.
“Who are you?”
“Daniel.”
Celeste closed her eyes.
Daniel Mercer.
Ruth’s son.
A federal prosecutor she had not seen in nine years.
Ruth opened the door before Celeste could stop her.
Daniel entered, snow on his shoulders.
He looked older.
Harder.
And furious.
“You have to come with me.”
Celeste stepped back.
“No.”
“Rinaldi’s people found Ruth’s house.”
“I noticed.”
“That means they have access to more than street information.”
“What are you saying?”
Daniel looked directly at her.
“I’m saying your husband’s organization has a leak.”
Celeste’s stomach tightened.
“And?”
“And whoever it is knows Vincenzo’s search patterns.”
Daniel placed a burner phone on the bed.
A photograph appeared on its screen.
Vincenzo.
Leaving Ruth’s house that afternoon.
Celeste stared at him.
He had come.
For one terrible second, she wanted to see him.
Then Daniel spoke.
“Rinaldi isn’t trying to kill you.”
Celeste looked up.
“Then what does he want?”
Daniel’s expression hardened.
“Your baby.”
The room became silent.
Celeste instinctively covered her stomach.
Daniel continued.
“Because if Vincenzo Duca has an heir, every alliance in Chicago changes.”
Celeste whispered, “It’s a child.”
“To you.”
Daniel looked at the photograph of Vincenzo.
“To men like them, it’s succession.”
Celeste’s eyes filled with something colder than fear.
“No.”
She straightened.
“My baby belongs to no empire.”
May you like
And hundreds of miles away, Vincenzo Duca was about to learn that Celeste had just made the first decision about their child without him.
It would not be the last.
