Chapter 4 - Saint AgathaBy the twentieth floor, I hated billionaires for living high enough to make emergency evacuations a form of medieval punishment.
By the tenth, I hated Vincenzo specifically because he had not even started breathing hard.
“You are not human,” I muttered.
He glanced back.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Dante, three steps below me, laughed.
Vincenzo stopped.
Dante immediately became interested in the concrete wall.
I almost smiled.
Then I remembered Mateo.
The smile died before it reached my mouth.
We reached the underground garage eleven minutes later.
Three black SUVs waited with engines running.
How they had gotten there when every security system in the building was compromised was something I decided not to ask.
Men like Vincenzo probably had backup plans for their backup plans.
Rosalia entered the second vehicle with my mother.
Moreno was shoved into the third.
I moved toward the first SUV.
Vincenzo caught the door before I opened it.
“Vest.”
Dante handed me a black ballistic vest.
I stared at it.
“I’m five foot four.”
“We noticed.”
I glared at him.
He smiled.
It was the first time I had seen Dante look like an actual person.
I put the vest on.
It was heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Terrifyingly real.
Vincenzo adjusted one strap near my shoulder without asking.
His fingers brushed the side of my neck.
My body reacted before my brain could stop it.
I went still.
So did he.
For one strange second, the garage disappeared.
No guns.
No kidnapped brothers.
No dead mothers who were alive.
Just his hand close to my skin.
His eyes on mine.
Then Dante cleared his throat loudly.
Vincenzo stepped back.
“Get in.”
I did.
Chicago blurred past the windows.
The city I knew looked different from behind bullet-resistant glass.
I had lived here for six months, long enough to memorize train delays, grocery discounts, pharmacy hours, and the cheapest laundromat near our apartment. I knew which corners flooded when it rained and which coffee shops would refill a cup for free if you looked tired enough.
Vincenzo knew another Chicago.
Buildings owned through holding companies.
Judges who owed favors.
Men who disappeared.
Basements where deals happened.
Churches that were not only churches.
We traveled through that version now.
Dante sat in front, laptop open.
“Saint Agatha was purchased in 1992 by the Merciful Heart Foundation.”
Vincenzo frowned. “Never heard of it.”
“You weren’t supposed to. Foundation folded in ’04. Property transferred through six entities. Current owner is Larkspur Medical Research.”
“What do they research?”
“Nothing.”
“Employees?”
“On paper? Twelve.”
“And actually?”
“Trying to find out.”
Rosalia’s voice came through the radio.
“Stop trying.”
Dante looked at the speaker.
Vincenzo picked it up.
“Why?”
“Because if Saint Agatha is still active, Alessandro will see the search.”
“He already knows we’re coming.”
“No. He hopes you are.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is whether he controls the road.”
Vincenzo’s jaw tightened.
“What do you suggest?”
“Do not take I-55.”
Dante looked at the navigation.
“That’s the fastest route.”
“Which is why they will be waiting there.”
Vincenzo considered for half a second.
Then to the driver: “Canal. Southwest.”
We changed direction.
Seven minutes later, Dante’s phone buzzed.
He looked down.
“Accident on I-55.”
Rosalia’s voice came again.
“How many vehicles?”
Dante stared at the screen.
“Three.”
“Black SUVs?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
I looked at Vincenzo.
He looked toward the car behind us.
“Your grandmother is irritating.”
“That is the first normal thing anyone has said today.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Then the countdown on Dante’s laptop hit ten hours, fifty-nine minutes.
No one smiled after that.
I spent the drive thinking about Mateo.
Fourteen years old.
That was when Rosalia had told him.
I remembered that year.
He had started locking his bedroom door.
I thought it was puberty.
I thought he was embarrassed because his lungs had gotten worse and he hated me hearing him use the nebulizer.
He had changed after Nonna died.
Quieter.
Older.
He had once asked me what I would do if someone I loved lied to protect me.
I told him protecting someone with a lie was still lying.
He had looked like I slapped him.
I had forgotten that conversation until now.
My throat burned.
Vincenzo spoke beside me.
“You’re angry at him.”
I looked out the window.
“Yes.”
“You can be angry after we get him back.”
“I can do both.”
“Yes.”
That surprised me.
I turned.
He was watching the road.
“When I was eight,” he said, “I found a box of my mother’s things in my father’s study. A scarf. Earrings. Letters.”
I waited.
“My father told me to burn them.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“He burned them himself.”
I watched his profile.
“What does that have to do with Mateo?”
“Nothing.”
“Vincenzo.”
He was quiet.
Then: “For years, I hated my mother for leaving.”
My anger softened despite myself.
“He told you she left?”
“He told me she chose someone else. Said she was weak. Said some women were not built for loyalty.”
“Your father was a bastard.”
“Yes.”
No defense.
No hesitation.
Just yes.
“I built half my life proving I was nothing like the woman he described.” He looked at me. “Now I find out she never existed.”
“The woman?”
“The version.”
I understood.
Elena the selfish mother.
Caterina the disloyal wife.
Rosalia the harmless grandmother.
Gabriel the mechanic.
Lucia the maid.
All versions.
All masks.
“What if we don’t like who people really are?” I asked.
Vincenzo’s expression darkened.
“Then we decide what to do with the truth.”
Not forgive.
Not understand.
Decide.
That was the most Vincenzo answer possible.
We left the dense city behind.
Warehouses became industrial yards, then patches of trees and old properties tucked behind stone walls.
Saint Agatha appeared forty minutes later.
It looked abandoned.
A long brick building stood behind iron gates, its central chapel roof sagging slightly beneath years of neglect. Ivy crawled across broken stone. Several windows were boarded.
A faded statue of Saint Agatha stood near the entrance, missing one hand.
Nothing about the place suggested thirty-three years of conspiracy.
Which probably meant everything about it did.
Our vehicles stopped half a mile away behind an old landscaping warehouse.
Dante deployed men in two teams.
I started to follow.
Vincenzo blocked me.
“You remain here until we clear the outer building.”
“I thought I was staying beside you.”
“You are.”
“You’re leaving.”
“For five minutes.”
“That is technically not beside.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You argue during armed operations?”
“I’m new to armed operations.”
Dante coughed into his fist.
Vincenzo pointed at the SUV.
“Inside.”
I opened my mouth.
He leaned down.
“Lucia.”
Something in the way he said my name shut me up.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
I climbed back in.
My mother joined me.
Rosalia refused.
Naturally.
“You should sit,” Mom told her.
“I have been sitting for three years.”
“You’re seventy-four.”
“I am aware.”
“You were shot eighteen months ago.”
I turned.
“What?”
Rosalia glared at her daughter.
“Unnecessary.”
I stared.
“You were shot?”
“Barely.”
“How are you barely shot?”
“The bullet passed through.”
“That is still shot!”
She waved one hand.
“Later.”
Everything with Rosalia was later.
Dante returned after six minutes.
“Outer perimeter clean.”
Vincenzo frowned.
“Too clean?”
“Yes.”
Rosalia nodded.
“They want us inside.”
“That was obvious.”
“No,” she said. “You don’t understand. Saint Agatha was designed with internal separation. Whoever controls the center can seal every wing.”
Dante looked at her.
“How do you know?”
“I spent seven months imprisoned here.”
My mother went pale.
I stared at her.
Rosalia touched the small saint pendant at her throat.
“After Caterina disappeared, I came looking.”
“You never told me,” Mom whispered.
“There are many things I never told you.”
“That is becoming the family slogan,” I said.
Vincenzo almost smiled again.
Then gunfire cracked in the distance.
Everyone moved.
A Russo man shouted through Dante’s radio.
“Contact east side!”
More shots.
Glass broke.
Vincenzo pushed me down behind the SUV.
“Stay.”
He ran toward the wall with Dante.
I heard bullets hit metal.
My mother crouched beside me.
Rosalia did not.
She stared at the old chapel.
Then she started walking.
“Nonna!”
She ignored me.
Of course she did.
I chased her.
“Lucia!” my mother shouted.
Rosalia reached the broken statue.
She touched the stone base.
Pressed something.
A narrow section shifted.
A hidden entrance opened beneath the ivy.
I stared.
“You knew that was there?”
“I escaped through it once.”
“Useful detail!”
She disappeared inside.
I followed because apparently stupidity was hereditary.
The tunnel smelled like wet stone and rust.
My phone flashlight cut a narrow path.
“Stay close,” Rosalia whispered.
“That sounds familiar.”
“This is not the time.”
“It is never the time.”
We moved downward.
Above us, gunfire continued.
The tunnel ended at an iron staircase.
Rosalia stopped.
Her breathing had changed.
Not fear.
Memory.
“You were really held here?”
“Yes.”
“By Alessandro?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Paolo.”
Vincenzo’s father.
I looked at her.
“He knew Caterina had survived the road attack. He thought I helped hide her.”
“Had you?”
“No.”
That answer came too fast.
I noticed.
She noticed me noticing.
“I did not know where Caterina was then.”
“But you knew she was alive.”
Rosalia looked away.
“Yes.”
I wanted to scream at her again.
Instead, I heard something above us.
A voice.
Faint.
Male.
I froze.
“Mateo?”
Nothing.
Then again.
“Lucia!”
I ran.
Rosalia grabbed my arm.
“Wait.”
“That’s him!”
“It could be a recording.”
I ripped free.
“I don’t care.”
I climbed.
The staircase ended behind an old confessional.
I pushed through a narrow wooden panel and entered what had once been the chapel.
Dust filled the air.
Broken pews lined the room.
At the far end stood the altar.
And tied to a chair in front of it was Mateo.
“Lucia!”
I ran.
He looked terrible.
Bruised.
Sweaty.
An inhaler lay on the floor several feet away.
His breaths were short.
Too short.
I dropped beside him.
“Oh my God.”
“You came.”
“Of course I came.”
I untied him with shaking hands.
He started crying.
Mateo never cried.
Not since he was twelve.
I pulled him against me.
“I’m mad at you,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“So mad.”
“I know.”
“You knew she was alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t.”
“I know that too.”
His breathing hitched.
I grabbed the inhaler.
Two puffs.
Wait.
Again.
Rosalia appeared behind us.
Mateo looked over my shoulder.
“Nonna.”
His voice broke.
Rosalia closed her eyes.
So much love passed across her face that my anger briefly lost its shape.
Then a slow clap sounded from the balcony.
My blood froze.
Alessandro Russo stepped into view.
Gray suit.
Silver tie.
Perfect hair.
The same warm smile I had seen twice at Vincenzo’s penthouse.
Behind him stood six armed men.
And Caterina.
Her hands were bound.
Blood marked one side of her face.
Mateo tried to stand.
I pushed him behind me.
Alessandro smiled.
“Lucia Marino.”
“Bellandi,” Rosalia corrected.
He looked at her.
“Still proud of dead names.”
“Still hiding behind your brother’s.”
His smile tightened.
Then the side doors opened.
Vincenzo entered with Dante and three Russo men.
Guns rose everywhere.
Alessandro looked delighted.
“Vincenzo.”
Vincenzo saw Caterina.
The world stopped inside his face.
She looked at him.
Thirty-three years collapsed between them.
“My boy,” she whispered.
His gun lowered half an inch.
That was all Alessandro needed.
One of his men fired.
Dante shoved Vincenzo sideways.
The bullet hit stone.
Russo men returned fire.
I dragged Mateo behind the altar.
Rosalia disappeared into smoke and shouting.
Caterina dropped.
Alessandro’s men moved toward the rear exit.
Vincenzo fired twice.
A man fell.
Dante took another down.
Then a hand grabbed my hair.
I screamed.
One of Alessandro’s soldiers dragged me backward.
Mateo lunged at him.
“Don’t touch her!”
The man struck Mateo across the face.
Something inside me became animal.
I drove my elbow backward.
He grunted.
I bit his hand.
Hard.
He cursed.
Then another shot cracked.
The man fell.
Vincenzo stood ten feet away, gun raised.
His eyes met mine.
“Move!”
I grabbed Mateo.
We ran toward him.
Caterina had reached Rosalia.
The sisters stared at each other.
Neither spoke.
Then Caterina slapped Rosalia across the face.
The sound was incredible.
Even during a gunfight.
Rosalia touched her cheek.
“I deserved that.”
“You deserve another.”
“Later.”
Apparently it was contagious.
Vincenzo reached his mother.
He stopped inches away.
Caterina looked up at him.
Her mouth trembled.
He did not touch her.
Neither did she.
Thirty-three years was too much distance for one second.
Then Alessandro’s voice boomed through speakers hidden in the chapel.
“Family reunions are exhausting.”
Vincenzo spun.
Alessandro was gone.
Steel shutters slammed over every exit.
The lights turned red.
A mechanical lock engaged.
Dante ran to the door.
“Sealed.”
Rosalia looked toward the altar.
“No.”
The countdown appeared on a projector screen.
09:58:44.
Nine hours.
Fifty-eight minutes.
Then another timer appeared beneath it.
00:14:59.
Fourteen minutes.
Mateo whispered, “That one’s not the archive.”
Rosalia stared.
“What is it?”
He swallowed.
“The building.”
I looked at him.
“What about the building?”
Caterina answered.
“He wired Saint Agatha to burn.”
The timer dropped.
00:14:42.
Vincenzo took his mother’s hand for the first time.
May you like
Then he looked at all of us.
“Find a way out.”
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