Chapter 10 - Shadows on Fourth Street
The drive down to Fourth Street felt entirely different than it had days ago. The afternoon shadows stretched long across the asphalt, and the brick buildings lining the neighborhood looked fragile against the gray autumn sky. Luca drove his own sedan instead of the usual chauffeured town car, parking two doors down from Teresa’s apartment building to avoid drawing attention. I sat in the passenger seat with my fingers tightly interlaced in my lap, my eyes fixed on the rusted iron railing of the front steps.
"Stay in the car, Emma," Luca said, his hand gently touching my wrist before I could reach for the door handle. His thumb brushed over my skin, warm and steady. "Let me clear the building first."
"She's my grandmother, Luca. I can't just sit here while someone might be waiting for us," I replied, my voice hard with the stubbornness I had inherited from both her and the kitchen life that had kept us afloat.
Before he could argue, a sharp crash echoed from the alleyway beside the building. Without another word, Luca pushed his door open, moving with a speed and silent grace that betrayed his mafia background far more than any tailored suit ever could. I followed him out anyway, staying a step behind as we hurried up the concrete stairs to Teresa’s front door.
The door was ajar. The heavy deadbolt had been cleanly splintered from the frame, wood splinters scattered across the faded linoleum floor like broken glass. My heart hammered against my ribs, a cold wave of panic washing over me as I shoved the door open wide.
"Grandma!" I cried out, rushing into the dim living room.
The apartment was wrecked. The small wooden kitchen table had been flipped on its side, the ceramic plates and bowls shattered into white fragments across the floor. Drawers had been pulled out from the sideboard, their contents—photographs, bills, recipe cards, and old letters—strewn across the carpet in a chaotic mess.
From the back hallway, a soft cough broke the silence. Luca drew his pistol in a fluid, silent motion, stepping past me to clear the bedroom threshold. A second later, he lowered the weapon and let out a sharp breath.
"Emma, in here," he called out, his voice urgent.
I ran down the narrow corridor. Teresa was sitting on the edge of her iron bed frame, her gray hair slightly disheveled, holding her large wooden cooking spoon like a shield against her chest. She wasn't crying, but her face was pale, her hands trembling as she looked at the broken frame of her doorway.
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"They came looking for the lease documents, sweetheart," Teresa said, her voice raspy but steady as I dropped to my knees in front of her, wrapping my arms tightly around her shoulders. "Two men in dark coats. They asked where you were hiding the corporate audit files. I told them I only knew how to make dough, not war."
Luca knelt beside us, his dark eyes scanning the ruined bedroom before locking onto Teresa with a look of profound, heavy regret. "They won't come back, Teresa. I give you my word. But you can't stay here another night. Pack what matters. Both of you are coming to the Moretti estate. Permanently."
