Chapter 8 - The Traitor at Vincent’s Table
Carlo DeLuca was arrested.
The mothers were safe.
Antonio’s ledger went to federal investigators.
For exactly forty-eight hours, I believed the worst was over.
Then Luca disappeared.
Vincent found his room empty.
Phone left behind.
Weapon.
Wallet.
Everything.
One note:
I’m sorry.
Vincent stared at it.
“No.”
I read over his shoulder.
“Maybe he went after Carlo.”
“Carlo is in federal custody.”
“Then what?”
Gavin knew.
“He’s going after Sebastian Vale.”
We had almost forgotten him.
The respectable developer behind half Chicago’s luxury towers.
Vale’s father had worked with Carlo.
Sebastian inherited the arrangement.
Carlo might have orchestrated the family betrayal, but Vale funded the armed crews.
Including the men who attacked Vincent.
Including those who burned my bakery.
The federal ledger connected Vale financially.
Not enough yet for everything.
Luca apparently wanted certainty.
Or revenge.
“Where would he go?” I asked.
Vincent grabbed his coat.
“Vale’s penthouse.”
“Then call the FBI.”
“I am.”
“And?”
“I’m going.”
“No.”
“Maggie.”
“Every time one of you says a person’s name like that, somebody ends up bleeding.”
Gavin laughed.
“She has a point.”
“You’re not helping.”
We drove downtown with federal agents already en route.
Vale’s building security denied Luca had entered.
A lie.
Vincent knew the underground service route.
Of course.
We reached the penthouse.
Door open.
Broken glass.
Luca stood across the room holding a gun on Sebastian Vale.
Vale was fifty, polished, silver-haired, wearing cashmere while facing possible death.
“Luca,” Vincent said.
Luca did not turn.
“He knew.”
“Put it down.”
“He knew Carlo was my father.”
“I know.”
“He paid him.”
“Yes.”
“He paid for Marco.”
“Yes.”
“Dad—”
Luca stopped.
Carlo.
His father.
The traitor.
The man who used him.
“You don’t owe Carlo vengeance,” Vincent said.
“This isn’t for Carlo.”
“Then who?”
Luca’s hand shook.
“For me.”
I stepped into the room.
Vincent glared.
I ignored him.
“Luca.”
“Stay back.”
“No.”
Vale looked at me.
“You’re the baker.”
“Everybody keeps saying that like I misplaced my name.”
Luca almost smiled.
Good.
“Your father controlled your life,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Mine did too, even when he thought he was protecting me.”
Luca looked toward me.
“If you pull that trigger, Carlo still controls what happens next.”
His jaw tightened.
“He deserves it.”
“Maybe.”
Vale looked offended.
“Not helping yourself,” I told him.
Then:
“But deserving consequences and becoming the consequence are different.”
Luca breathed.
Vincent said quietly:
“Give me the gun.”
“Boss…”
“I’m not your boss right now.”
That mattered.
“I’m your friend.”
Luca’s face broke.
After fifteen years, maybe nobody had said it.
He lowered the weapon.
Federal agents entered seconds later.
Vale was arrested based on evidence they found in his office, plus surveillance recordings Luca had copied.
Luca surrendered too.
He faced charges for the break-in.
Vincent did not erase them.
Could have tried.
Did not.
Luca received probation and mandatory counseling after cooperating extensively.
He hated counseling.
Later admitted he needed it.
Federal investigations exploded across Chicago.
Carlo’s organization collapsed.
Vale’s companies entered receivership.
Several public officials resigned.
Two former officers were charged.
One alderman held a press conference insisting he had “never knowingly accepted illegal money,” which became Chicago’s favorite joke for a week.
Vincent faced scrutiny too.
Antonio’s ledger documented crimes connected to Costello businesses.
Vincent had inherited many.
Some he knew about.
Some he had quietly continued early in his leadership.
He sat with attorneys for days.
Then announced something nobody expected.
Costello Group would cooperate fully.
He shut down illegal operations.
Sold companies too entangled to clean.
Separated legitimate restaurants and construction firms under monitored management.
Some loyal men called him weak.
Others called him smart.
One threatened to leave.
Vincent opened the door for him.
That was new.
I focused on something smaller.
Russo’s Bakery.
Insurance would cover part of the rebuild.
Not enough.
Then one morning, I arrived at the ruins and found thirty people.
Neighbors.
Former employees.
Customers.
Firefighters.
Mrs. Kowalski holding a broom like a weapon.
“What is this?”
She frowned.
“You think we let Russo’s disappear?”
Apparently not.
They cleaned.
Raised money.
Started an online campaign.
Vincent offered to pay for everything.
I refused.
His expression suggested this was personally offensive.
“I can afford it.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because if you buy the bakery, it becomes something you saved.”
He understood.
“What can I do?”
“Carry drywall.”
Vincent Costello stared at me.
“You want me to carry drywall?”
“Yes.”
“I own a construction company.”
“And today you own gloves.”
He carried drywall.
Photographs appeared online.
CHICAGO’S MOST FEARED MAN REBUILDING BAKERY.
I laughed for an hour.
He did not.
My mother moved into a small apartment nearby.
Rebuilding with her was harder than rescuing her.
She missed twenty-eight years.
She did not know my favorite music.
My ex-fiancé.
Dad’s final decade.
I didn’t know the woman she became.
We argued.
Cried.
Tried again.
Real reunions are less cinematic than rescues.
More valuable too.
One night, while hanging shelves in the new bakery, Mom said:
“Your father would like Vincent.”
I nearly dropped the drill.
“Dad would threaten him with a rolling pin.”
“Also true.”
Vincent entered carrying lumber.
“What are we discussing?”
“You.”
“Dangerous.”
Mom smiled.
“My husband would have liked you.”
Vincent looked uncomfortable.
“Joseph died because of my family.”
“He died because Carlo killed him.”
“That distinction doesn’t feel large.”
“It should.”
She touched his arm.
“Don’t inherit guilt that belongs to another man.”
Vincent looked toward me.
I smiled.
“I’ve been telling him.”
“Then he should listen.”
He sighed.
“Apparently Russo women travel in groups.”
We did.
That evening, he helped close the bakery.
Almost rebuilt.
New windows.
New ovens.
Old sign restored.
Vincent stood beneath it.
“What happens when this is finished?”
“What do you mean?”
“You won’t need protection.”
“Probably not.”
“And you won’t need me hanging around.”
I looked at him.
For all his power, Vincent suddenly sounded like a teenager asking whether a girl liked him.
“No.”
His face became carefully blank.
I stepped closer.
“I won’t need you.”
Pause.
“But I might want you.”
He looked down at me.
“That sounds promising.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
He kissed me.
This time, no gunfire interrupted.
A remarkable improvement.
Then his phone rang.
Of course.
Gavin.
Vincent answered.
His expression changed.
“What?”
I knew immediately.
“What happened?”
He ended the call.
“Carlo escaped federal transport.”
My stomach dropped.
“How?”
“Inside help.”
“Where will he go?”
Vincent looked toward the restored Russo’s sign.
“To finish what he started.”
Carlo had lost everything.
Which meant a man who once wanted control now had only revenge.
May you like
And the person he blamed most was not Vincent.
It was me.
