Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Taylor Street
The restaurant glass was thick, but Sal’s gaze pierced straight through it like a blade wrapped in velvet.
Gabe did not hesitate. His father had taught him two things about survival in Chicago: never sit with your back to the entrance, and never ignore an old man who recognizes dead men's ghosts. He gripped the elder man’s trembling forearm and gestured smoothly toward the waiting black town car.
Get inside, Gabe commanded quietly. Tommy, pop the trunk. Put the girl’s box inside.
Wait, Tommy muttered, his hand drifting instinctively toward the holster tucked beneath his charcoal wool coat. Boss, Sal is sitting right there. He’s looking right at us. If you walk away now, it’s a direct insult to the council. He’s going to ask questions.
Let him ask, Gabe murmured coldly. Tell the valet I took an urgent call regarding the dock shipments in Gary. Reschedule the dinner for tomorrow night at my estate. Move.
Nora gathered her rag and cream, clutching them tight against her thin chest. Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t scream or cry. She merely held tight to her grandfather’s frayed sleeve as Tommy ushered them into the leather interior of the luxury sedan. The blast of warm air from the vents hit the old man, making him cough—a harsh, rattle-deep sound that shook his frail ribs.
Who are you? Gabe demanded the moment the heavy doors clicked shut, isolating them from the bitter November chill. Tommy slid into the driver’s seat, smoothly pulling into the flow of traffic away from Little Italy.
My name is Arthur Quinn, the old man rasped, pulling Nora tightly into the hollow of his shoulder. Fourteen years ago, I had a small clockmaker’s workshop on Racine Avenue. Your father, Enzo Santoro, walked in through my back alley door at two in the morning. He was bleeding from a grazed shoulder, carrying a grandfather clock movement—solid German brass, an antique bezel.
Gabe’s jaw tightened. My father never owned an antique clock.
He didn't display it, boy! Arthur hissed, leaning forward. His breathing was ragged, his hands vibrating with tremors of exhaustion and raw terror. He didn't want anyone to see it. He asked me to bore out the lead counterweight inside the pine casing and forge a twin chamber. A locking mechanism that responded only to a unique pair of keys.
Arthur reached out with a trembling, calloused index finger and pointed directly at Gabe's sleeves.
Those keys. He had them cast from iron and brass, disguised as sleeve clasps. He told me: 'Arthur, if I die of a sickness, give the clock to my wife. But if I die in the street with a bullet in my back, keep quiet until you see my son wearing the keys. Because whoever kills me will try to buy the clock first.'
Gabe felt the blood drain from his face. Fourteen years ago, his father had been ambushed on the corner of 24th and Western. The official story, backed by Uncle Sal and the police captains on their payroll, was a botched robbery by a rival North Side crew. Sal had wept openly at the funeral, placing a gold rosary into Enzo's casket and swearing on his mother's soul that he would raise Gabe as his own blood.
Uncle Sal gave me these cufflinks on my eighteenth birthday, Gabe whispered, his fingers curling over the cold metal at his wrists. He said they were all he could recover from my father's personal effects.
Because Sal couldn't open the clock without them! Arthur said, his voice cracking with emotion. Sal raided my shop the night Enzo died. He burned my tools. He shattered my kneecap with a tire iron trying to get the combination! But Enzo took the keys before he left, and I swore on my dead daughter's life that I didn't know where the lock was hidden. When they couldn't break me, they tossed me into the alley like garbage. I spent fourteen years hiding in basements, begging for scraps with Nora, waiting to catch a glimpse of the man who wore those brass keys.
Gabe looked down at Nora. She was listening intently, her eyes darting between the two men. Her stomach let out a loud, hollow growl that broke through the heavy tension of the car.
May you like
Tommy, Gabe said, his voice dropping into an icy, focused calm. Take us to the safehouse on Dearborn. Have Maria prepare roast chicken, potatoes, and hot bread. And call Marcus. Tell him I need the historical asset ledger from the family vaults immediately.
Boss, Tommy said through the rearview mirror, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. We’re being followed. Two black SUVs just pulled out from the side street behind Alberto’s. Sal isn’t waiting for tomorrow.
