Chapter 5 - The Safety Deposit Box
The impact threw Leah violently against the steering wheel.
The airbag miraculously did not deploy, allowing her to maintain control of the swerving Mustang.
“Don’t hit the brakes!” Gabriel yelled, bracing his injured arm against the dashboard.
Leah gritted her teeth and slammed the accelerator to the floor, pushing the vintage car to its absolute limit.
The armored truck roared behind them, its high beams blinding Leah in the mirrors.
She drifted around a sharp corner, the tires screeching loudly on the wet asphalt.
“Take the next left into the underground lower levels!” Gabriel instructed.
Leah yanked the steering wheel hard, diving the car down a concrete ramp into the labyrinth of Lower Wacker Drive.
The narrow, pillar-lined tunnels were a death trap, but they were also Gabriel’s territory.
The armored truck struggled to navigate the tight turns, its massive frame scraping against the concrete walls.
Leah saw a narrow service alley ahead and completely killed the headlights.
She whipped the Mustang into the dark alley and slammed on the emergency brake.
The armored truck sped right past them, completely missing their hiding spot in the absolute darkness.
Leah collapsed back into her seat, gasping for air as her hands shook violently.
“You drive like a getaway man,” Gabriel noted, a faint trace of genuine amusement in his rough voice.
“I drive an ambulance in Chicago, it’s basically the same thing,” Leah shot back, wiping sweat from her forehead.
Gabriel chuckled, but the sound quickly turned into a painful groan as he clutched his bleeding arm.
“We have to ditch this car and walk to the bank,” Gabriel said, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“What bank?” Leah asked, following him out into the freezing, damp alleyway.
“The neutral territory bank where the safety deposit box is kept.”
They walked for six blocks through the shadows, avoiding the main streets and police patrols.
They finally arrived at a monolithic stone building that looked more like a fortress than a financial institution.
Gabriel bypassed the front doors, leading Leah through a highly secured service entrance using a biometric thumbprint.
They descended into the lowest level of the vault, surrounded by thousands of polished brass boxes.
“Row seven, box fourteen,” Gabriel muttered, scanning the numbers.
Leah froze, staring at the brass key Gabriel had retrieved from his grandmother’s neck before the shootout.
“Give me the key,” Leah demanded suddenly, her voice remarkably firm.
Gabriel looked at her, his eyes narrowing with deep suspicion.
“Why?” he asked quietly.
“Because my father was a cop, and his badge number was seven-one-four,” Leah confessed.
Gabriel’s expression shifted from anger to absolute shock.
He slowly handed her the brass key, stepping back to let her approach the wall of boxes.
Leah found box 714, slid the brass key into the lock, and turned it with a heavy click.
She pulled the long metal drawer out and opened the lid.
Inside lay a single leather-bound journal and a faded photograph.
Leah picked up the photograph and felt all the air leave her lungs instantly.
It was a picture of her dead father, standing arm in arm with Gabriel’s grandfather, Arthur Moretti.
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“Your father wasn’t just a cop, Leah,” Gabriel whispered, staring at the undeniable evidence.
“He was the head of the Falcone crime syndicate, and he is the man who murdered my father.”
