Chapter 8 - The Interrogation of Julian VanceAt 3:00 AM, under the freezing drizzle of the Chicago night, four commercial salvage cranes from the Moretti fleet illuminated the black waters of Pier 12 with powerful maritime floodlights.
A team of eight master deep-water divers descended into the flooded pumphouse beneath the south intake canal.
I stood on the concrete seawall, wearing my heavy black shearling coat, old Matteo standing silently at my left side holding an umbrella over Clara, who watched the dark water without blinking.
At 3:45 AM, the heavy steel cables of the primary crane tightened with a concussive, groaning strain.
From the black depths of the canal, dripping with green river moss and silt, rose an airtight industrial steel vault stamped with the Moretti ironworks seal: 1998.
The crane swung the vault onto the concrete apron of the pier.
With slow, reverent care, two veteran metalworkers used hydraulic cutters to slice through the reinforced locking bolts.
The heavy steel lid was lifted away.
Inside lay a simple, pristine bronze casket draped in an emerald cashmere scarf that had not lost a single thread of its color.
I walked forward, my boots clicking against the wet concrete, and knelt beside the bronze casing.
I reached out, my trembling, calloused fingers touching the cold metal of the lid.
“I’m here, Bianca,” I whispered into the freezing wind, tears finally burning behind my eyelids, spilling hot and fast down my scarred cheeks. “The foundry is awake. The traitors are broken. You can sleep in the daylight now.”
Beside me, Clara knelt on the wet concrete, reaching out her small hand to touch the emerald wool.
“She’s not cold anymore, Lorenzo,” Clara murmured softly. “She said the water was very quiet, but she was waiting for you to walk down the pier.”
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I looked at the child, then up at the gray dawn breaking across the horizon over Lake Michigan.
The long winter was finally over.
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