Chapter 2 of 12
MY SON GAVE OUR WEDDING DANCE TO HIS MOTHER-IN-LAW, THEN THE MAFIA BOSS CROSSED THE BALLROOM AND HELD OUT HIS HAND
THE NIGHT THEY CAME FOR MY BAKERY
For seventeen years, my bakery had been the safest place I knew.
Lawson's Bakery opened at five-thirty every morning.
By six, the front windows glowed yellow against whatever Chicago weather had decided to inflict on us.
Teachers came before school.
Police officers came after night shifts.
Construction workers bought coffee strong enough to remove paint.
Mothers ordered birthday cakes.
People cried at the corner table.
Got engaged beside the pastry case.
Brought babies back years after I had made their wedding cakes.
I knew which customer wanted extra cinnamon.
Which one lied to his wife about eating donuts.
Which teenager pretended the leftover croissants were for his parents.
My bakery was not glamorous.
It had chipped tile behind the refrigerators and an oven door you had to lift slightly before closing.
But it had never frightened me.
Until that night.
“You're not going inside.”
Gino said it as our SUV stopped across the street.
Red and blue lights flashed against the bakery windows.
Police cars blocked both ends of the block.
No fire trucks.
That was good.
Probably.
I reached for the door.
Gino caught my wrist.
Not hard.
“Beth.”
“That's my business.”
“And whoever broke in knows it.”
“I have employees.”
“It is one-thirty in the morning.”
“Maria sometimes comes at three.”
“It isn't three.”
Noah leaned forward from the back seat.
“Mom, he's right.”
I turned.
“You do not get to start telling me what is reasonable tonight.”
He sat back.
“Fair.”
Gino released my wrist.
One of his security men approached the SUV.
“Back door was forced. Officer inside says the office was tossed. Register untouched.”
Gino looked at me.
“They wanted records.”
“I don't keep Aaron's records there.”
“They don't know that.”
A police officer walked toward us.
I recognized him.
Sergeant Paul Duffy.
He had been buying blueberry muffins from me for ten years.
His wife liked the cinnamon rolls.
His daughter had once worked my counter during college.
He looked at the SUV.
Then at Gino.
Then back at me.
“Beth?”
I got out before anyone could stop me.
“Paul.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
He looked past me.
His face changed.
“I know him.”
“So does everybody tonight.”
Gino exited slowly.
Paul's posture stiffened.
“Mr. Balante.”
“Sergeant.”
“How are you connected to this?”
“Customer.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
Paul looked at me.
“Customer?”
“He likes lemon cake.”
Noah made a strange sound that might have been disbelief.
Paul rubbed his forehead.
“All right. Beth, somebody broke through the alley entrance about forty minutes ago. Neighbor across the street heard glass.”
“Did they take anything?”
“We're still checking.”
“I need to see.”
Paul hesitated.
“Office is a mess.”
“It's my office.”
He sighed.
“Stay behind me.”
Gino followed.
Paul turned.
“No.”
“I wasn't asking.”
That was the first time I saw Sergeant Duffy look nervous in his own crime scene.
He considered arguing.
Then apparently remembered some article he had read about Gino.
“Don't touch anything.”
Gino inclined his head.
The front bell rang when I entered.
That stupid little sound nearly broke me.
The bakery looked normal from the customer side.
Chairs upright.
Cake displays dark.
Coffee machines silent.
Then I saw the hallway.
My office door had been ripped from the frame.
I stopped.
Noah stood behind me.
“Oh, God.”
Drawers had been emptied.
Tax folders thrown across the floor.
Photographs ripped from the wall.
The old framed picture of Aaron and me at our tenth anniversary lay shattered beside the desk.
I knelt.
“Mom.”
Noah crouched beside me.
Glass crunched beneath his shoes.
In the photograph, Aaron had one arm around my waist.
I wore a red dress.
He wore a tie I hated.
We were laughing at something outside the frame.
Eleven years ago, the frame cost me twelve dollars at Target.
Now I would have traded half the bakery for it.
I carefully lifted the photograph.
Gino stood in the doorway.
His eyes moved across the room.
“They knew what they were searching for.”
“How?”
“Desk drawers were emptied selectively.”
Paul frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Gino pointed.
“Bookkeeping cabinet untouched. Employee files untouched. Personal desk. Wall safe. Photo storage.”
I looked at him.
“They wanted Aaron.”
“Yes.”
Noah moved toward the old filing cabinet.
“Mom, you kept Dad's paperwork here?”
“Some.”
“Like what?”
“Insurance. Death certificate. Accident report.”
Gino turned.
“Accident report?”
“Yes.”
“Still here?”
I checked the bottom drawer.
Empty.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
Paul's expression sharpened.
“What accident report?”
“My husband's crash.”
I looked at Gino.
“Somebody took it.”
“Anything else?”
I searched.
Aaron's old trucking pay stubs were gone.
So was a folder containing correspondence from the insurance company after his death.
The strange part was what remained.
Family photographs.
His obituary.
A Father's Day card Noah made at nine.
They took paperwork.
Not memories.
“This was professional,” Gino said.
Paul bristled.
“You going to tell me how you know?”
“No.”
“Helpful.”
I looked at the broken frame.
“Can the bank box wait until morning?”
Gino's answer came immediately.
“No.”
Paul looked between us.
“What bank box?”
I said nothing.
Police officer or not, Aaron's letter said not the police.
Paul had been my customer for years.
I trusted him.
I also realized tonight that Aaron had trusted people too.
Some survived.
Some didn't.
“We need to go,” Gino said.
Paul stepped in front of him.
“Beth stays until I finish taking her statement.”
Gino looked at me.
Not Paul.
“Your choice.”
That mattered.
Everything about the man was strange.
People moved when he entered rooms.
Men feared him.
Yet with me, he kept presenting doors instead of pushing me through them.
I turned to Paul.
“I'll give you a statement tomorrow.”
“Beth.”
“Please.”
He looked at my face.
Something softened.
“All right.”
He handed me his card as though I hadn't known his number for a decade.
“Call if anything feels wrong.”
I looked around my destroyed office.
“I think we passed wrong.”
Outside, Gino changed vehicles twice.
Noah noticed.
“Are we being followed?”
“Assume yes.”
“That's reassuring.”
“It wasn't intended to be.”
We reached Lake Shore Community Bank at 2:26 a.m.
I stared at the dark building.
“Banks aren't open.”
Gino got out.
“This one is.”
“For you?”
He looked at me.
“For money.”
Apparently enough money could make two-thirty in the morning a banking hour.
A gray-haired branch executive met us at a side entrance wearing suit pants, a wrinkled shirt and no tie.
He did not appear pleased.
He appeared terrified.
“Mr. Balante.”
“Mr. Keene.”
The man looked at me.
“Mrs. Lawson?”
“Yes.”
“We located the box.”
“You knew about it?”
“No. Not until we searched archived records.”
My pulse quickened.
“Why archived?”
“Because the box was opened twelve years ago and prepaid for twenty-five years.”
“By Aaron?”
“No.”
He checked the paperwork.
“Matteo Balante.”
I looked at Gino.
“My brother liked contingency plans.”
“So did my husband, apparently.”
The vault door opened.
Inside a private room, the banker placed a long metal box on the table.
Number 417.
My brass key slid perfectly into the lock.
My hand wouldn't turn it.
Noah stood beside me.
“You want me to?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“This is something your father left for both of us.”
We opened it together.
Inside were six things.
A ledger.
Three cassette tapes.
A photograph of Aaron standing beside a man I recognized from old news articles as Matteo Balante.
A sealed plastic pouch containing a flash drive.
And another envelope.
This one said:
NOAH.
My son stopped breathing.
“I have a letter?”
“Yes.”
His hand began shaking.
He reached for it.
Gino interrupted.
“Wait.”
Noah looked angry.
“That's from my father.”
“I know.”
“Then don't tell me not to read it.”
“I'm telling you because the security camera in that corner stopped blinking thirty seconds ago.”
We all looked up.
The tiny red light was dark.
Gino's hand went inside his jacket.
The banker went pale.
“What does that mean?”
“Get behind the table.”
The lights died.
Pitch black.
Noah cursed.
I heard Gino move.
“Beth.”
“Here.”
“Down.”
I crouched.
The vault hallway door opened.
Footsteps.
Three.
Maybe four people.
Then a man's voice.
“Mrs. Lawson.”
I froze.
“Leave the box.”
Gino whispered, “Do not answer.”
The man outside laughed.
“We know Balante is with you.”
Gino pulled something from his jacket.
A gun.
I had never seen a weapon in his hand before.
It should have changed how I saw him.
It did.
Just not in the way I expected.
There was no excitement in his face.
No pleasure.
Only calculation.
Noah crouched beside me.
The envelope with his name remained inside the box.
The voice came again.
“Beth, we're not here to hurt you.”
Gino's mouth tightened.
I whispered, “People always say that before doing something terrible.”
His eyes flicked toward me.
Even now, I saw approval there.
The banker shook violently.
“They can't get inside the vault.”
A metallic sound echoed.
Gino looked toward the door.
“They don't need to.”
“What?”
“Fire suppression.”
A hiss began overhead.
Not water.
Gas.
The banker swore.
“The vault has an oxygen-reduction system.”
My lungs tightened.
“They're trying to suffocate us?”
“Not immediately,” he said.
Somehow that was not comforting.
Gino moved toward an emergency panel.
Dead.
“Manual release?”
The banker pointed toward the outer hallway.
“Other side.”
Of course.
Noah whispered, “We're trapped.”
“No,” Gino said.
He looked at the ceiling.
“Not yet.”
He climbed onto the table.
“What are you doing?”
“Buying air.”
He smashed the ventilation grate with the butt of his weapon.
A loud crack echoed.
A shot came through the door.
I screamed.
Gino dropped.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
He looked at Noah.
“Help me.”
My son stood on the table.
Together, they ripped down the grate.
Behind it was a narrow duct.
“Beth first.”
I stared.
“I am fifty-three years old.”
“You're also the smallest.”
Noah said, “Mom, go.”
I climbed.
It was humiliating.
Terrifying.
Dust filled my hair.
My dress tore at the knee.
Somewhere below, shots hit the vault door.
I crawled through darkness.
Noah followed.
The banker after him.
Gino last.
Twenty feet later, the duct collapsed beneath us.
I fell.
Hard.
Onto shelving.
Boxes crashed.
I hit the floor.
Someone landed beside me.
Noah.
“Mom?”
“Alive.”
Gino dropped last and somehow landed on his feet.
I hated him slightly for that.
We had fallen into a records room.
Emergency lights glowed red.
The banker gasped.
“Back stairwell.”
We ran.
At the bottom, two men entered.
Gino shoved me behind him.
Noah did something I never expected.
He stepped beside Gino.
“Get behind me,” Gino ordered.
“No.”
“You have no weapon.”
“I have a chair.”
My son was holding a folding chair.
For one ridiculous second, I saw eight-year-old Noah preparing to fight a monster beneath his bed.
Gino looked at him.
“Your father would be disappointed if I let you die with office furniture.”
One of the intruders raised his gun.
A shot exploded.
The man fell.
Not Gino's shot.
Police flooded the hallway from the rear entrance.
Sergeant Duffy led them.
“DROP IT!”
Everything happened at once.
The attackers were restrained.
The bank manager collapsed against the wall.
Noah dropped the chair.
Gino slowly placed his weapon on the ground.
Paul stared at him.
Then at me.
“I told you to call if something felt wrong.”
I laughed.
I couldn't help it.
Hysterical laughter came out of me.
Paul stared.
“Beth?”
“I am having a very difficult night.”
Noah suddenly hugged me.
Hard.
I froze.
Then wrapped both arms around my son.
“I thought they were going to kill you,” he whispered.
“I thought they were going to kill you.”
He pulled back.
His face was pale.
“Dad's letter.”
The safe-deposit box remained upstairs.
Paul secured the building.
Twenty minutes later, an officer brought the box down.
Everything was still inside.
Noah reached for his envelope.
This time, Gino did not stop him.
My son opened it.
Aaron's letter began:
Buddy,
If you are old enough to read this, I probably missed more than I ever wanted to miss.
Noah broke instantly.
He sat on the floor of the bank lobby and cried.
I sat beside him.
He read aloud.
Whatever people tell you about success, remember this: a man's job is not his worth.
His money is not his worth.
The people who invite him into expensive rooms are not his worth.
Be the kind of man your mother never has to defend when you're not in the room.
Noah covered his face.
I cried too.
Across the lobby, Gino stood silently.
Paul approached him.
“What exactly is in that ledger?”
Gino looked at me.
I looked at Aaron's handwriting.
Then at the men who had tried to steal it.
“We're going to find out.”
What I didn't know yet was that the ledger would tell us who arranged Aaron's final route.
But the cassette tape would tell us something worse.
Someone Aaron trusted had known he was going to die.
And that person was still standing close enough to my family to destroy us again.