Chapter 2 - The Letter He Left Behind
The air in the grand ballroom felt like frozen glass, fragile and sharp enough
to bleed on.
I took the folded piece of paper from Peter’s trembling fingers. The parchment
was rough beneath my fingertips, worn along the edges, smelling faintly of
antiseptic and pipe tobacco—a scent that slammed into my subconscious like a
battering ram. My vision blurred with sudden, burning tears.
“Claire,” Adrian’s voice sliced through the ringing in my ears. He took a
single, deliberate step toward me. “Give me the letter.”
“Don't!” Peter shouted, stumbling back toward the perimeter of guards. “Thomas
told me explicitly! If Adrian DeLuca gets his hands on the cypher, the Romano
family won't be the only ones burning down this city!”
Isabella let out a shrill, manic laugh that made several guests flinch. “Adrian,
look at this farce! This man is an escapee from an asylum! He’s trying to extort
us! Have security throw them both into an alley and let’s end this!”
Adrian didn't spare her a glance. His focus remained pinned to me, his jaw
clenched tight enough to crack bone. “Claire. Look at me.”
I looked up. The powerful CEO was gone. In his eyes was a terrifying mixture of
raw grief, suppressed rage, and something that looked dangerously like guilt.
“Your father was not just an engraver,” Adrian said quietly, ensuring his voice
carried only to me, Isabella, and the immediate circle of guards. “He was the
archivist for my father’s enterprise. Fourteen years ago, when my father was
murdered, Thomas disappeared with the ledger that named the killer. I spent a
decade believing he betrayed us. I spent a decade believing he burned down that
warehouse himself to erase his tracks.”
“He didn't burn anything!” Peter yelled from behind the security line. “Don
Romano set that fire! They trapped Thomas inside, but when they realized the
ledger wasn't in the safe, they pulled him out half-dead! They’ve kept him
locked away in a private clinic for fourteen years, trying to break his mind to
find where he hid the DeLuca legacy!”
I looked at Isabella. Her face was no longer pale; it was gray. Her chest rose
and fell in rapid, shallow bursts.
“You knew,” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “Your
family has had my father prisoner for fourteen years.”
“Shut up,” Isabella hissed under her breath, her eyes darting toward the exits.
“You have no idea what you’re interfering with, you little nobody.”
“Isabella.” Adrian turned toward her, his tone dropping to a lethal whisper that
made even the burly guards flinch. “Is your father keeping Thomas Morgan in
Rockford?”
“Adrian, he’s lying!” she cried, tears of pure calculation spilling over her
mascara. “My father is an honest businessman! We allied with you to unite the
families, to bring peace to the territory! Would I marry you if my family had
killed your father?”
“You would,” Adrian said with chilling clarity, “if marrying me was the only way
to keep me from discovering the truth.”
Adrian raised his left hand. Instantly, four guards moved forward, surrounding
Isabella.
“Escort Miss Romano to the penthouse suite on the thirty-fourth floor,” Adrian
commanded. “Strip her of all communication devices. Place two men outside the
door, two inside, and cut the landlines.”
“Adrian, you can’t do this to me!” she shrieked as the guards took her by the
elbows. The high-society guests gasped in horror as the future bride of
Chicago’s most eligible bachelor was hauled away like a common criminal. “My
father will tear your empire to the ground for this! You hear me? You’re signing
your own death warrant!”
Her screams faded as the service elevator doors slid shut.
Adrian turned back to the remaining guests. “The gala is concluded. My staff
will validate your parking. You will speak of nothing you witnessed tonight to
the press. If a single word leaves this room, I will consider it a breach of
personal privacy, and my legal team—along with my security firm—will respond
accordingly.”
It was not a request. It was an absolute decree.
Within five minutes, the ballroom had cleared. The two hundred socialites fled
into the rainy Chicago night like frightened mice, leaving only the scattered
champagne glasses, the bruised flower petals on the marble floor, and the heavy
silence of an impending war.
I stood there, clutch in hand, my father’s letter still clutched against my
chest.
Peter Wallace had collapsed onto a nearby banquet chair, his face buried in his
hands, weeping from pure exhaustion.
Adrian walked over to me, stopping three feet away. He seemed to fill the entire
space, radiating a dark, dangerous gravity.
“Claire,” he said softly. “Read the letter.”
My hands shook as I unfolded the yellowed paper. The handwriting was uneven, the
tremor of an aging, captive man evident in the jagged strokes, but it was
undeniably my dad’s.
My Dearest Little Sparrow,
If you are reading this, it means Peter found you, and it means the Romano
family is about to take everything that belongs to the DeLucas—and to us.
I am so sorry I left you in the dark. I am sorry your mother had to carry the
weight of my ghost. I stayed alive in this hellhole for fourteen years because I
knew that if I died, Don Romano would murder you and Elena to tie up loose ends.
My silence was your shield.
The swallow Isabella wore tonight is the first key. There are three in
existence. I made one for myself, one for your mother, and one for Don Antonio
DeLuca before he was poisoned.
Inside the three brooches is a mechanical combination. Together, they open the
safety deposit box at the Old Continental Bank on Michigan Avenue. Inside that
box is the recorded testimony and the financial ledger proving that Don Romano
orchestrated the hits, the fires, and the blood that built his fortune.
Do not trust Adrian DeLuca blindly, Claire. He carries his father’s blood, and
the DeLucas are ruthless when they smell betrayal. But if he still possesses his
honor, give him this message:
‘The iron sparrow only sings when the nest is safe.’
Find your mother. Protect the second swallow. They are coming for her.
I love you, my Little Sparrow. Fly far.
Dad.
I dropped the paper to my chest, a sob tearing its way out of my throat.
They are coming for her.
My head snapped up. “My mother.”
Adrian had read the sudden terror on my face. “What is it?”
“The letter,” I gasped, panic seizing my throat. “He says there are three
brooches. One was in Isabella’s bag. One was given to Adrian’s father. And the
third... my father gave it to my mother.”
Adrian’s eyes widened with sudden, lethal understanding. “And if Isabella
realized who you were in that hallway, she didn't just plan this public scene.
She made a phone call before she brought you down here.”
My phone began to ring inside my apron pocket.
The screen displayed an unknown number. My thumb shook violently as I swiped the
screen and brought the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
A raspy, unfamiliar voice came through the speaker, accompanied by the muffled
sound of rain and the idling rumble of a heavy V8 engine.
“Claire Morgan?”
“Who is this?”
“Your mother makes very good chamomile tea,” the voice purred, sickeningly calm.
“A bit too sweet for my taste, but she was very hospitable before we tied her to
the radiator.”
My knees hit the ballroom floor. “No. No, please, don't hurt her!”
“You have one hour, Little Sparrow,” the voice said. “Bring both brooches and
the old man’s letter to the scrap yard on Damen Avenue. Come alone. If we see a
single DeLuca car within three blocks, we will burn that little apartment to the
May you like
ground—with your mother inside it.”
The line went dead.
