Chapter 61
DANTE
W arehouses are a dime a dozen in Chicago. Regeneration projects kick off every now and then and clean up a few. Meanwhile, a few more slip into disrepair. The cycle never ends.
“I have to hand it to the Russians,” Leon mutters from the back seat on the other side of Carmela. “They know how to set a scene.”
They really do.
A soldier steps forward to open the high, barbed wire topped mesh gate. Matteo swings the AMG E-Class into a weed-riddled yard. Ahead, a classic red brick former meat factory sits on the banks of the river.
Christian is here, I hope.
Still alive, I pray.
Carmela’s fingers tighten over mine.
“It’s going to be alright,” I say.
Her eyes say she’s terrified, but she nods.
There is no backing out.
CARMELA
My skin began crawling the moment we pulled off the main road. Abandoned warehouses, crumbling factories, overlapping graffiti on every wall and temporary fencing half torn down.
The sun dipped below the horizon a while ago. It's not fully dark yet and shadows are everywhere, unlike people who are notable in their absence.
The prickling sensation intensifies as our three vehicle convoy passes through the high rolling metal gates into an industrial lot. We drive straight through a gaping entrance, past soldiers with automatic weapons, into a brick warehouse.
Our lead car sweeps a wide circle before pulling into a stop. We follow, slotting in beside it. Our final vehicle pulls up to our right. Although we’re positioned between them, I have never felt more exposed.
Fluorescent lights hang from the high rafters overhead. Half are burned out or broken and the remainder cast long shadows over the gritty concrete floor where more vehicles are parked and soldiers are either gathered in clusters or patrolling.
The Cadillac Escalade parked directly opposite is familiar—Ettore’s SUV.
Our driver lifts his eyes to the rearview mirror. His name is Mateo, and Dante told me he’s the head of their security.
“We’re ready,” Leon says.
The two men in the front exit. On either side of us, our soldiers likewise unload.
Leon gives my hand a brief squeeze but doesn’t otherwise make eye contact before he gets out.
“Stay here,” Dante says. He likewise doesn’t look at me.
I understand. There are eyes here. But I still fight the urge to fling myself at him.
“Understood.”
He opens the door and steps out.
DANTE
We’re on Russian turf, supposedly neutral ground.
I guess we’ll find out soon enough if that’s true.
Three vehicles and ten soldiers are the agreed limit for Ettore and us. The remainder of the soldiers present should belong to Grigory Koslov, the Russian Pakhan and owner of this abandoned factory.
I join Leon and Mateo. Our soldiers spread out within the bounds of our patch of the warehouse, alert in the face of so many threats.
Ahead of us, emerging from the back of his Cadillac Escalade, is Ettore Gallo.
He walks forward, two of his soldiers flanking him.
To his right, Grigory Koslov stands flanked by his men.
They share a look.
The Pakhan’s expression is neutral.
Ettore is barely contained smug as he turns to Leon and me.
“You’re missing someone vital.”
“So are you,” Leon replies.
Ettore doesn’t quickly mask his reaction to Leon speaking.
“You thought I returned to America to manage a nightclub?” Leon smiles without warmth. “How very na?ve of you, Ettore.”
“Don Gallo to you.”
Leon inclines his head. “Don Gallo, your wife is in the car behind me. I believe in honor within the bounds of business. You will find she has been untouched and unharmed during her time as our guest, her escape, and the subsequent period as our guest once again. Now, where is my cousin?”
A tic thumps in Ettore’s jaw. Maybe Leon’s jibe about honor…
He waves to his men.
CARMELA
I watch Dante and Leon walk away. It should comfort me that there is bulletproof glass between me and danger.
It doesn’t. I’d rather be at their sides.
Christian is here, close.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Not good,” Dante replied.
God, I want this to be over and for Christian to be back.
I can’t see much through the front window as Dante and Leon are in positions that block my view.
They have a plan.
Dante offered no details, but I know he has one.
I didn’t trust him before when he first took me. In my defense, I’ve been burned. I trusted my father when he said I should marry Ettore. Look where that got me.
Then I trusted Ettore to care for me, and all that got me was scars and a fear of certain acts of intimacy that started even before there was ink drying on our marriage certificate.
My once unshakable trust in the men in my life has been shattered. It’s hard to let go of being strong and protecting myself as best as possible.
It’s hard to believe in something good.
Today, I do.
Today, I pray my blossoming faith will deliver me and those I love from danger.
I do trust and believe in them. Now. Finally. In this desperate moment, I find the strength to let go, to let someone else take on the burden I have carried for more than a year.
Does my acceptance come too late?
Whatever Dante says, and even assuming we get out of this alive, I have a lot of guilt to work through for the part I played in Christian’s capture.
Mateo breaks away and strides toward the car and me… He swings the door open and motions for me to exit.
I draw a shaky breath, slide over to the opening, and step out.
“Whatever happens, don’t move from Dante’s side,” he says quietly as he takes my arm and directs roughly forward.
I keep my eyes on the ground. My feet lose coordination under the weight of the many eyes watching my arrival on the scene.
Mateo puts me between him and Dante and keeps his hand on my arm.
I swallow. My eyes slowly lift to find Ettore flanked by two men. He is staring back at me with a hatred that steals my breath. A cold wind is whipping through the interior of the warehouse, but it’s not the only reason I shiver.
The time I told him Christian touched me resurfaces in colorful glory. As Dante said, maybe Ettore believes I’ve been their prisoner. That won’t save me from my jealous, vengeful husband’s wrath.
He will make me pay.
“It’s time for you to uphold your side of the deal, Ettore.”
The heavy Russian accent draws my gaze to the right and an imposing man with a sprinkling of gray at his temples, immaculately dressed in a suit and cashmere overcoat, flanked by a dozen men, each cradling automatic weapons.
Who is he?
The Pakhan?
His advisor or representative?
His words make me surmise that, whatever his official title might be, he’s here as a mediator to ensure both sides uphold their end of the deal.
Only now do I acknowledge how many soldiers are present with their weapons on display.
If this goes wrong, it’s going to be a massacre.
Ettore waves his right hand to someone behind him.
Three men emerge from a broken doorway on my left where windowed offices line the warehouse wall.
Roman.
Jero.
And a man slumped between them who has the visage of raw meat.
Christian.
My breath hitches. I blink rapidly, trying to steady my cartwheeling thoughts.
Don’t react, Dante said.
Only, how can I not react? Any normal person would be horrified to see this.
Mateo’s fingers tighten on my arm. A warning. A reminder to keep it together.
I look away from Christian’s broken body and latch onto the sturdy hook and chain that dangle from the rafters, marveling at how it remains steady and impervious to the sharp breeze.
Unmoved by the weather or the scene that plays out beneath it.
Like I need to be.
Out of the bleakness comes an unexpected light.
I let go.
My breathing steadies.
Trust has been shattered.
But faith can be restored.
Whatever happens, I have loved.
Briefly.
Perfectly.
Let go.
Trust.
CHRISTIAN
Jero and Roman drag me up from the chair. My wrists are still taped together at my lower back and my legs have gone dead.
I wish the rest of me were dead.
Poor choice of phrase—I snicker.
My knees give out. They’re holding my arms, and the sudden wrench feels like they’re about to be ripped from the socket.
“Fuck, he’s a heavy bastard,” Roman grunts. “What the fuck do they feed him?”
Go fuck yourself, asshole.
I wonder if his girl has had her baby yet.
Damn, I think they’ve broken my brain, as well as my body, that I could give a fuck about that.
I think about putting my feet down and helping them out—not helping them is probably hurting me more than them. But I’m a bit disconnected and decide to be an obstinate bastard as they drag me past Ettore’s soldiers and into the center of the warehouse where cars and men are clustered.
“You’re laying it on a bit thick there, mate,” Jero mutters.
He can go fuck himself, too.
Roman coughs out a breath, like he’s trying to cover a laugh. “I wish he’d just stand the fuck up. I’m going to put my back out.”
Whatever…
I get a vague notion of yet more soldiers and big blacked-out cars through my one good eye. Leon… Dante… Mateo… Their soldiers flank them in a mirror of Ettore, Peter, and Bo.
“Just drag him,” Ettore snaps.
Nice.
That’s what two years of loyalty get you…
He really is a shitty boss.
Wait. Was I loyal?
Nope, I don’t think I was.
Not to you, motherfucker.
A ripple passes through the occupants of the room.
Jero and Roman drop me. Unprepared, my knees hit the unyielding concrete.
The pain is sharp as the crumbling floor stabs up into my kneecaps.
My chest is caught in a vise. I can’t breathe for the longest time, and when I do the pain shoots echo spasms of agony down the length of my spine.
Goddamn…
Motherfucker…
With bells on…
When I can blink my one good eye open, I find Roman and Jero have drawn their weapons… So has the Pakhan.
Wait? When did he get here?
He’s pointing his gun at Ettore’s head… and when I say pointing, I mean the muzzle is touching Ettore’s temple so, yeah, pretty fucking close.