Chapter 4 - The Escape
Word Count: ~1,500 words
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped beast. My breath came in shallow, panicked hitches, forming tiny clouds of white vapor in the freezing, unheated stairwell.
Renata remained silent, her small face pressed tightly against my shoulder, honoring her promise to be as quiet as a mouse. But I could feel her heart racing against mine.
I looked down the dark concrete corridor of the basement level. To the left was the main service alley where the SUV was idling. To the right was the building’s underground boiler room, which connected to an old, disused subterranean delivery tunnel built for the city’s freight system in the early 20th century. Few people knew it still existed, but as a real estate developer who had purchased the building, I had reviewed the original architectural blueprints years ago.
It was a gamble. If the tunnel door was welded shut, we’d be cornered in a dead end. But standing in this stairwell was suicide.
I pulled Renata closer, adjusted my grip on my briefcase, and silently sprinted down the right corridor toward the heavy steel door marked BOILER ROOM – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
I grabbed the heavy iron wheel handle and turned it. It groaned in protest, rust flaking off into my hands. I slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind us just as I heard heavy footsteps echoing down the concrete stairwell above us.
Marcus’s men were already inside the building.
The boiler room was a maze of massive roaring pipes, hissing steam, and industrial machinery. The heat was suffocating compared to the freezing stairwell. I navigated through the darkness, using the dim screen of my cell phone to light the path until I found what I was looking for: a low, arched wooden door secured with an old rusty padlock.
I set Renata down for a brief second, pulled my 9mm handgun, pressed the barrel against the old lock, and wrapped a thick rag around the gun to muffle the sound.
THUMP.
The low, suppressed pop echoed softly through the loud hum of the boilers. The lock shattered.
I yanked the heavy door open, revealing a damp, cold brick tunnel stretching into absolute darkness. The air smelled of wet earth and ancient iron.
“Where are we going, Daddy?” Renata whispered, staring into the dark abyss.
“To safety, baby. Hold onto my hand tight,” I said, pulling her into the tunnel and shutting the heavy wooden door behind us, latching it from the inside.
We walked through the dark for what felt like miles, stepping over abandoned iron rails and rusty water pipes. I knew this line led three blocks east, surfacing near the public transit railyard on 16th Street.
After twenty minutes of breathless walking, we reached a metal ladder leading up to a heavy iron street grate. I climbed up first, setting my shoulder against the heavy metal lattice, and pushed with all my strength. Snow cascaded down into my face as the grate gave way with a sharp metallic clatter.
I hauled myself up onto the snow-covered street, reached down, and lifted Renata out of the dark hole, setting the grate back in place.
We were standing in a desolate, snow-covered industrial park. In the distance, the neon sign of an all-night diner flickered weakly through the storm.
We couldn't use my credit cards. We couldn't go to a hotel. My father’s connections with local law enforcement and corporate security were vast; the moment my name popped up on a computer screen, Marcus would know where we were.
I needed someone completely outside the DeLuca sphere of influence.
I pulled out a pre-paid burner phone I kept in my briefcase for private land acquisitions, powered it on, and dialed a number I had memorized years ago.
The phone rang four times before a gruff, tired voice answered.
“Who is this? It’s two in the morning on Christmas.”
“Frank,” I said, my voice cracking with exhaustion. “It’s Mauricio.”
A long pause hung over the line. Frank Vance was Clara’s older brother—Renata’s biological uncle. He was a retired Chicago police detective who had spent the last four years hating my guts, convinced that I—a wealthy DeLuca—had pulled strings to "buy" his deceased sister’s child to use as some legal tax write-off.
“DeLuca?” Frank’s voice turned dangerously sharp. “What the hell do you want? If you’re calling to brag about your cozy Christmas—”
“I need help, Frank,” I interrupted, stepping into the lee of a brick wall to block the howling wind. “They killed Julian. They killed him four years ago, and now they’re coming for Renata.”
Silence slammed down on the line.
“What did you just say?” Frank demanded, his tone suddenly shifting from anger to razor-sharp professional alertness.
“I have the Zurich DNA reports. I have the wire transfers signed by Paola. My parents... they tried to take her tonight, Frank. Marcus Rossi cut the power to my building. We’re on foot at the 16th Street rail yard. Please.”
I heard the sound of keys jingling on the other end of the line, followed by the heavy clatter of a truck engine turning over.
“Stay behind the brick wall near the railyard office,” Frank said grimly. “Don't talk to anyone. I’ll be there in six minutes. If you’re lying to me, DeLuca, I swear to God I’ll shoot you myself.”
Six minutes felt like six hours. I wrapped my body around Renata, using my coat to shield her from the biting wind. Her small hands were shivering despite her gloves, but she didn't complain once. She just held onto my lapels, her eyes reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights.
Finally, a battered grey Ford F-150 skidded around the corner, its headlights cutting through the blinding snow. The truck screeched to a halt, and the driver’s side door flew open.
Frank Vance stepped out. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, with graying hair, a scarred jawline, and a thick canvas coat. He kept one hand tucked inside his jacket pocket—clearly gripping a weapon.
He walked up to us, his sharp blue eyes darting around the empty street before fixing on me, then dropping down to the shivering little girl in my arms.
“Put her in the truck,” Frank ordered gruffly.
I didn't argue. I climbed into the passenger seat, pulling Renata onto my lap. Frank slammed the door, jumped into the driver’s seat, and threw the truck into gear, tearing away from the railyard just as a black SUV slowly turned onto 16th Street in the far distance.
Frank saw the SUV in his rearview mirror. His jaw tightened.
“Looks like you weren't lying about Rossi,” Frank muttered, stomping on the gas pedal. The truck surged forward, disappearing into the blinding whiteout of the storm.
Frank drove through a series of winding, unlit back alleyways, expertly losing any potential tail before finally pulling into a detached garage behind a modest suburban home in South Chicago.
He killed the engine, pulled down the garage door, and motioned for us to follow him inside.
The house was warm, smelling of stale coffee and cedar wood. Frank led us into a living room dominated by a massive wall board covered in old newspaper clippings, police reports, and handwritten notes.
My eyes widened as I looked at the board.
In the center of the wall was a photo of Clara Vance. Next to it was a photo of my uncle, Julian DeLuca. And surrounding them were photos of my father, my sister Paola, and Marcus Rossi.
“You’ve been tracking this,” I whispered, staring at the web of red string connecting the photos.
Frank walked over to a pot of coffee sitting on a warmer, poured three mugs, and handed a glass of warm milk to Renata, who took it gratefully and sat down on the worn leather couch.
“Clara didn't die of natural causes four years ago, Mauricio,” Frank said softly, his voice heavy with years of unspoken grief. “The hospital said it was heart failure, but I was a homicide detective for twenty years. I knew someone poisoned her water supply while she was staying at that cabin in Oregon.”
I looked at him, horror washing over me. “Why didn't you say anything when I took Renata?”
“Because I couldn't protect her back then!” Frank snapped, turning to face me. “I was a broke, disgraced ex-cop fighting a multi-billion-dollar empire! When you stepped in and adopted her, I thought you were part of the cover-up! I thought Arthur sent you to hide the girl away in some fancy boarding school where she’d never be heard from again!”
Frank stepped closer, his fierce gaze locking onto mine.
“So tell me, DeLuca... why are you risking your life, your money, and your family name for a child who isn't even yours?”
I looked over at Renata. She was sipping her milk, her little eyes drooping as the warmth of the room finally took hold of her.
“She is mine,” I said quietly, looking back at Frank with absolute certainty. “Blood didn't make me her father. Love did. And I will burn the DeLuca empire to the ground before I let them touch a single hair on her head.”
Frank stared at me for a long, silent moment. Slowly, the cold suspicion in his eyes softened, replaced by a deep, mutual resolve.
May you like
He walked over to his desk, pulled out a thick tactical folder, and threw it onto the table.
“Good,” Frank said with a grim smile. “Because if we’re going to burn them down, we’re going to need more than just that legal file. We need to hit them where it hurts most.”
