Chapter 9 - The Rescue at Slip Four
The warehouse at slip four smelled of damp hemp, dead fish, and engine oil. The heavy sliding door had been chained shut from the inside, but a single kick from Bruno’s heavy boot sent the rusted padlock flying off its bracket with a sharp clatter of iron against concrete.
Vincent walked into the cavernous, unlit interior, his flashlight beam cutting through the floating dust motes and illuminating rows of stacked wooden crates marked Import-Export - Cicero.
"Mom? Mr. Moretti?"
A small voice came from behind a stack of tarps near the back wall.
Vincent lowered his flashlight. Claire Miller was sitting on an overturned wooden crate, her arms wrapped tightly around Sophie, who was shivering in her oversized yellow raincoat, her face pale but dry. Two of Marcone’s junior enforcers were tied up near the loading bay with heavy nylon twine, courtesy of Bruno’s quick work fifteen minutes earlier.
Claire looked up as Vincent’s tall silhouette emerged from the shadows of the doorway. For a second, her eyes widened with fear, but when she saw the calm, steady look in his dark eyes, the tension broke out of her shoulders in a long, shuddering sigh.
"You came," she whispered.
"I told you," Vincent said, walking over and kneeling down so he was at eye level with Sophie. He reached into his coat pocket—not for a gun, not for an envelope, but for a small, foil-wrapped parcel he'd picked up from the all-night bakery on Archer Avenue before heading to the rail yards. He held it out toward her. "The bakery was closed, but I woke up the baker. He says these are still warm."
Sophie looked down at the parcel, then up at Vincent’s face. She didn't look scared anymore. She reached out with both hands and took the warm paper, peeling back the corner to reveal a large, sugar-dusted jelly donut that smelled of raspberry and warm dough.
"Thank you, Mr. Moretti," she said softly.
Vincent stood up, turning to face Claire, who was slowly getting to her feet, her hands still trembling slightly as she smoothed down her apron.
"You can't go back to the Royal Diner," Vincent said, his voice matter-of-fact. "Marcone’s people know the address. And the landlord is a cousin of one of his lieutenants."
Claire looked down at the concrete floor, her jaw tightening with a familiar, stubborn pride. "And where are we supposed to go? We don't have enough for a deposit on another place, and my shift doesn't—"
"There's an apartment above the florist shop on Grand Avenue," Vincent interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Three rooms. Fully furnished. The rent was paid through next year by a client of mine who won't be needing it anymore."
Claire stared at him, her eyes searching his face for the catch, the hook, the hidden ledger entry that always came with a favor from a man like Vincent Moretti.
"Why?" she asked, her voice barely louder than the hum of the distant river. "Why are you doing this, Mr. Moretti? We're nobody. We don't have anything to give you back."
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Vincent looked down at Sophie, who was already taking her first bite of the jelly donut, a dusting of powdered sugar clinging to the tip of her nose. Then he looked back at the mother, his dark eyes clear and empty of everything except a strange, hard-earned peace.
"Because," Vincent Moretti said quietly, turning toward the open door where the gray light of dawn was beginning to break over the frozen Chicago skyline, "some accounts are worth balancing before the ledger closes."
