Chapter 3 - The Son Who Chose Another NameEmily did not open the door until Julian Ross placed his badge against the peephole.
Even then, she kept the chain on.
The door opened three inches, enough to show half her face and none of her mother. Julian stood with both hands visible. That detail mattered. Emily noticed it and wondered if he had learned it in courtrooms, crime scenes, or childhood.
“Assistant United States Attorney?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Prove it better.”
He removed a business card and slid it through the gap.
Emily picked it up.
JULIAN ROSS
UNITED STATES ATTORNEY’S OFFICE
NORTHERN DISTRICT OF ILLINOIS
Below that was a number matching the one inside Ruth’s envelope.
Emily looked at him through the narrow opening. “Why are you here?”
“Because Ruth Carter called me three months ago and left no message. Because this afternoon, one of my investigators told me Vincent Moretti had an incident at Hayes Diner with a waitress named Emily Carter. Because I know that name.”
Emily’s stomach tightened. “You had someone watching him?”
Julian’s face did not change. “We monitor people connected to active investigations.”
“Is your father under investigation?”
“My father is always under investigation. The problem is making one survive long enough to matter.”
From the couch, Ruth coughed.
Julian’s eyes shifted toward the sound.
Emily moved instinctively, blocking his view.
His voice softened. “Is she here?”
Emily did not answer.
Julian looked at the chain, then at Emily. “I’m not here to hurt either of you.”
“People keep saying things like that right before they ruin my day.”
Something like a smile touched his face and disappeared. “Fair.”
Ruth called weakly, “Let him in.”
Emily looked back. “Mom.”
“Let him in, baby.”
Emily shut the door, removed the chain, and opened it.
Julian stepped inside as if entering a church where something terrible had happened. His gaze moved over the apartment quickly but not rudely. The oxygen machine. The folded blankets. The prescription bottles arranged by time of day. The stack of unopened bills half-hidden beneath a cookbook. He noticed all of it. Emily saw him noticing and resented him for it.
Then he saw Ruth.
For a moment, the federal prosecutor vanished.
The man in the doorway looked like a lost boy.
“Ruth,” he said.
Ruth tried to smile. “Hello, Julian.”
He crossed the room and knelt beside the couch. He did not touch her until she lifted her hand. Then he took it in both of his.
Emily watched, stunned by the tenderness of it.
“You remember me?” Julian asked.
“I remember a little boy who hated peas and carried a red wooden horse everywhere.”
Julian lowered his head.
Emily looked away. Some grief felt indecent to witness.
After a moment, Julian stood and regained control over his face. “We don’t have much time.”
Emily folded her arms. “For what?”
“For you to decide how much danger you’re willing to admit you’re in.”
“I’m already aware.”
“No,” Julian said. “You’re angry. That is not the same as aware.”
The words landed hard because they were true.
He looked at Ruth. “Did you give her the envelope?”
“Yes.”
“Everything?”
“The copies. The key. Your number.”
Julian exhaled slowly. “Where is the original ledger?”
Ruth’s silence answered before her mouth did.
Julian’s expression sharpened. “Ruth.”
“I moved it.”
“When?”
“After I called you.”
“Where?”
Ruth looked at Emily.
Emily’s irritation flared. “Why is everyone looking at me like I’m supposed to know things nobody told me?”
Ruth reached toward the envelope. Emily handed it to her. With trembling fingers, Ruth removed the index card with the key.
“Bus station,” Ruth whispered. “Locker 118. Greyhound terminal. Paid through the end of the month.”
Julian’s jaw tightened. “That was dangerous.”
“So was keeping it here.”
“So was keeping it at all.”
Ruth’s eyes flashed. “Your mother died because men like your father believed everyone would eventually get tired of being brave.”
Julian went still.
Emily had seen people hit by words before. She had never seen a man refuse to fall from them.
Ruth softened. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” Julian looked toward the window. “You’re right.”
Emily asked, “What ledger?”
Julian turned to her. “My mother kept records. Not just financial. Personal. She wrote down who came to the house, who called, who left crying, who never came back. She hid copies with Ruth before she ran.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother understood something the government took too long to learn.” His mouth twisted slightly. “Criminal empires are built on paperwork as much as fear.”
Emily thought of Vincent placing the hundred-dollar bill on the counter. For the cup. Like everything in life could be priced after damage was done.
“What happens if he finds out we have it?”
Julian did not soften the answer. “He tries to take it. Then he tries to remove anyone who can explain it.”
Ruth closed her eyes.
Emily sat down because standing suddenly seemed too ambitious.
Julian reached into his coat and pulled out a phone. “I can get both of you into protective housing tonight.”
“No,” Ruth said immediately.
Emily stared at her. “What?”
“No hospitals. No government rooms. No strangers.”
“Mom, this is not about comfort.”
Ruth’s voice shook. “I am not dying under fluorescent lights with guards outside my door because of Vincent Moretti.”
“You are not dying,” Emily said.
Ruth looked at her daughter with such sorrow that Emily wanted to leave the room.
Julian said gently, “Ruth, I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I understand more than you think.”
Ruth’s expression softened again, but she did not change her answer. “Emily can go. I stay.”
Emily stood. “Absolutely not.”
“Baby—”
“No. You do not get to hide a mafia secret in my dresser, reveal that I accidentally threatened the most dangerous man in Chicago, introduce me to his federal prosecutor son, and then act like I’m going to abandon you on the couch.”
Julian looked at her.
This time, he almost did smile.
A knock came from downstairs.
Not at their door. Somewhere below, heavy enough to travel through the old building.
All three of them heard it.
Then another.
Then a man’s voice in the stairwell, muffled but clear enough.
“Building maintenance.”
Emily’s landlord never fixed anything after five in the evening.
Julian moved fast.
He turned off the lamp nearest the window, crossed to the door, and looked through the peephole. His face changed in a way Emily did not like.
“How many?” Ruth whispered.
“At least two.”
Emily’s mouth went dry. “His men?”
“Likely.”
The knock sounded one floor below now.
“Maintenance.”
A door opened. Mrs. Alvarez from 2B said something in Spanish. A man answered politely. Too politely.
Julian pulled a compact radio from inside his coat. “This is Ross. Possible threat at Carter residence. Need local units and federal backup. Quiet approach. No sirens.”
Emily stared. “You came alone?”
“I came quickly.”
“That’s a terrible answer.”
“It’s the honest one.”
The footsteps moved up the stairs.
Second floor to third.
Julian looked at Emily. “Back bedroom. Take Ruth. Lock the door. Do not open it unless I say the word Lucia.”
Emily helped Ruth up, heart hammering.
They had made it three steps when someone knocked on their door.
Three slow knocks.
Exactly like Julian had knocked.
A voice called, “Ms. Carter? We need to speak with you about your mother’s oxygen delivery.”
Ruth’s fingers dug into Emily’s arm.
Julian stepped beside the door, one hand inside his coat.
Emily helped her mother into the bedroom and closed the door.
Through the thin wall, she heard Julian speak.
“Who is it?”
A pause.
Then the voice outside changed.
May you like
No longer pretending.
“Tell the waitress Mr. Moretti would like a word.”
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