Chapter 4 - Don’t Go Home
Scarlet noticed the sedan after the third turn.
She was exhausted, not stupid.
Her mother had taught her that distinction.
She crossed Halsted Street without warning.
The sedan slowed.
Scarlet’s heartbeat accelerated.
She entered a convenience store, walked directly through an aisle, and watched the street through the refrigerated drink cases.
The sedan stopped outside.
Two men got out.
Scarlet grabbed her phone.
Before she could dial 911, someone caught her arm.
She spun around.
Vincent.
“What the hell?”
“Quiet.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Saving you time.”
“How did you—”
“Back door.”
He pulled her through the employee exit.
A black SUV waited in the alley.
Scarlet stopped.
“No.”
“Get in.”
“Absolutely not.”
The two men appeared at the end of the alley.
Vincent’s entire demeanor changed.
The funny dishwasher disappeared.
“Scarlet. Get in the car.”
She heard it then.
Authority.
Not confidence.
Command.
The SUV door opened.
Marco sat behind the wheel.
Scarlet looked from him to Vincent.
“Who are you?”
“One problem at a time.”
Vincent pushed her gently inside.
They accelerated away.
Scarlet stared at the leather interior.
“This is a hundred-thousand-dollar car.”
Marco looked in the mirror.
“Closer to two.”
“Marco.”
“Sorry.”
Scarlet turned toward Vincent.
“Dishwashers are doing really well these days.”
Vincent said nothing.
“Who were those men?”
“I’m finding out.”
“You’re finding out?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Silence.
Scarlet’s face changed.
“Oh my God.”
Vincent watched realization arrive.
“You’re police.”
“No.”
“FBI?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Vincent looked out the window.
“That answer is complicated.”
“I have a twelve-year-old brother waiting for me at home. Uncomplicate it.”
Milo.
Vincent looked at Marco.
“Your apartment isn’t safe.”
Scarlet went rigid.
“My brother is there.”
“No. He isn’t.”
Her face drained.
“What?”
“My people picked him up five minutes ago.”
Scarlet slapped Vincent.
Marco’s eyes widened.
Nobody moved.
Vincent slowly turned his face back toward her.
“If anything happens to him—”
“He’s safe.”
“You kidnapped my brother!”
“I protected him.”
“From what?”
“People connected to Tony.”
Scarlet stared.
Then her voice dropped.
“Who are you?”
Vincent knew the lie had reached its end.
“Vincent Moretti.”
Nothing happened for a second.
Then recognition.
Not from newspapers.
Vincent avoided photographs.
But Chicago had names people whispered.
Moretti was one of them.
Scarlet pressed herself against the opposite door.
“No.”
“Scarlet—”
“Don’t.”
Her eyes filled with something he had never seen from her before.
Fear.
It hurt more than the slap.
“You own Magnolia,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“And Tony works for you.”
“Technically.”
“All of this was yours.”
“Yes.”
Her expression hardened.
“Then you knew.”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe the great Vincent Moretti can know what happens on every dock in Chicago but doesn’t know his own employees are stealing from waitresses?”
Vincent had no answer.
Because stripped of excuses, she was right.
His ignorance did not make him innocent.
Scarlet laughed bitterly.
“I thought you were different.”
“I was trying to find out what was happening.”
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“Every conversation?”
“No.”
“How am I supposed to know?”
That question landed harder than anything else.
The SUV entered an underground garage beneath a quiet building near Lake Michigan.
Scarlet was taken upstairs.
Milo was waiting.
He was skinny, curly-haired, and wearing a Bulls sweatshirt two sizes too large.
“Scar!”
Scarlet ran to him.
Vincent turned away as she hugged her brother.
For the first time in years, he felt like an intruder in his own building.
Milo whispered something.
Scarlet laughed through tears.
Then Milo noticed Vincent.
“You’re the guy?”
Scarlet frowned.
“What guy?”
“The dishwasher.”
Vincent blinked.
Milo grinned.
“She told me about you.”
Scarlet looked horrified.
“I said there was a weird new dishwasher.”
“You said he had nice eyes.”
“Milo.”
Vincent almost smiled.
Scarlet pointed at him.
“Do not enjoy this.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
For one brief second, the fear between them loosened.
Then Marco entered.
His face was grim.
“We found something.”
He handed Vincent a phone.
A photograph filled the screen.
Scarlet’s apartment.
Someone had broken inside.
Her mattress had been cut open.
Cabinets emptied.
Walls damaged.
“They were looking for something,” Marco said.
Scarlet stared at the image.
“I don’t have anything.”
“Maybe they think you do.”
“I don’t.”
Vincent studied her.
“Your accounting notes.”
Scarlet froze.
“What notes?”
“You said you noticed inventory discrepancies.”
“I wrote some things down.”
“Where?”
She hesitated.
“In a notebook.”
“Where is it?”
Scarlet looked toward Milo.
Then back at Vincent.
“I gave it to him.”
Everyone turned.
Milo swallowed.
Scarlet crouched beside her brother.
“Where did you put it?”
Milo’s face became uncertain.
“You said hide it somewhere nobody would look.”
“Yes.”
“So I did.”
“Where?”
“At Magnolia.”
Vincent felt his stomach drop.
Milo smiled nervously.
“Under the loose floorboard in the pantry.”
Marco cursed.
Vincent grabbed his coat.
Scarlet stood.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“That notebook is mine.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“So is trusting you.”
Vincent stopped.
Scarlet held his gaze.
“You want me to believe you’re not like Tony?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop ordering me around like I belong to you.”
Silence filled the room.
Vincent slowly nodded.
“All right.”
Marco stared at him.
Vincent Moretti did not compromise.
Apparently, he did now.
Twenty minutes later they arrived behind Magnolia.
The restaurant was dark.
The rear door was already open.
Vincent drew a gun.
Scarlet saw it.
Reality settled between them.
This was no longer the dishwasher she had teased over coffee.
Vincent entered first.
The pantry had been destroyed.
Shelves overturned.
Food scattered across the floor.
Milo’s hiding place was empty.
Scarlet whispered, “It’s gone.”
Then the kitchen lights switched on.
Tony stood in the doorway.
Beside him was Anthony Bellini.
May you like
And Bellini was pointing a gun directly at Scarlet.
“Actually,” Bellini said, “we were waiting for her.”
