26. Lorenzo
LORENZO
Mateo intercepts me before I reach the SUV.
The morning air still carries the bite of night.
Black vehicles line the drive, engines idling.
Exhaust drifts into the pale sky. Two men wait beside the SUV while another watches the road beyond the gates.
Rocco stands nearby with a phone pressed to his ear, his attention shifting from one point to the next.
Victoria is already inside.
Through the tinted glass, I catch her profile. She sits quietly in the back seat, her coat wrapped around her, her hands folded in her lap.
“Don Nero.”
I stop with my hand near the door.
Mateo steps closer. “Permission to speak freely. Off the book.”
I look at him.
He holds my gaze. He knows exactly what he’s asking.
“Speak.”
His eyes flick briefly toward the others before returning to me.
“With the house still under review, the leak unfound, and Francesco keeping his head down, is Milwaukee the right move?”
The courtyard falls still.
Even Rocco lowers his phone.
Mateo knows me well enough to ask the question. He also knows he may not like the answer.
“There is no perfect time for risk.”
He waits.
I open the door, then pause.
“We stayed home,” I say, “and our enemy still received a call from inside my house.”
His jaw tightens.
“So tell me what safety looks like.”
He has no answer.
“Risk found us behind locked gates. I’d rather face it moving forward than sit still and wait for it again.”
A beat passes.
Then he nods once.
“Understood.”
I slide into the SUV.
Victoria turns when I sit beside her. Lorenzo remains in front with the driver.
She looks exhausted.
Not enough sleep. Not enough peace.
The faint scratch on her palm has nearly faded.
“You changed your mind?” she asks.
“No.”
A small breath leaves her.
Before she can say more, the driver pulls away.
The gates open.
Silence settles over the car.
In the side mirror, the estate drifts behind us. Stone walls. Iron gates. Men carrying weapons beneath dark coats.
Then the trees close in, and the house disappears.
Chicago waits ahead.
The city never eases into morning. It drags itself awake.
Delivery trucks crowd narrow streets. Traffic lights hold weary drivers in place. A man stands outside a corner store smoking beside crates of oranges. Wind off the lake slips between buildings and finds every crack in the vehicle.
Victoria watches everything.
I watch her.
She doesn’t lean toward the glass the way most people would. She sits still, careful even in curiosity.
Only her eyes travel.
Warehouses give way to rail lines. Service yards become diners with glowing signs. Churches sit tucked between laundromats and shuttered storefronts.
The city shifts around us.
Roads widen. Buildings spread apart.
The lake appears and disappears beneath the grey morning sky.
The driver keeps both hands on the wheel. One of my men rides in the passenger seat, paying more attention to mirrors than scenery.
Victoria reaches toward the window controls.
Then stops.
I notice.
“Open it.”
Her fingers press the button.
The glass lowers a few inches.
Cold air slips inside.
It catches the loose strand of hair against her cheek.
Victoria closes her eyes.
The reaction is small.
Still, I can’t look away.
Her shoulders ease. Her breathing deepens.
For one moment, she isn’t the woman I dragged back from a train station.
She isn’t surrounded by guards.
She’s simply a woman feeling fresh air on her face.
Remembering what freedom once felt like.
I turn away before she catches me staring.
The city slowly falls behind us.
Road signs replace street names.
Waukegan.
Kenosha.
Racine.
Milwaukee.
Victoria opens her eyes when the first sign appears.
I say nothing.
Traffic thins before gathering again.
Winter grass stretches alongside the highway. Bare trees stand in clusters across damp ground. Fuel stations, truck stops, rail yards, and fading industrial buildings pass one after another.
The closer we get to the state line, the more Chicago breaks apart behind us.
Illinois ends without announcement.
No barrier.
No grand marker.
Just a sign and the same grey sky hanging over both states.
Victoria keeps the window cracked until her fingers redden from the cold.
“You can close it.”
“Not yet.”
Her voice is quiet.
I let it go.
A truck rushes past, making the SUV shudder. The driver steadies the wheel.
Victoria turns her face toward the air again.
“When I ran,” she says after a while, “I barely felt any of it.”
I look at her.
She keeps her eyes outside.
“I remember fear. Mud. The station. The train doors.”
Her fingers tighten around her coat.
“This feels different.”
“Good.”
She glances at me.
Only for a second.
Then she’s looking out the window again.
Kenosha passes.
Then Racine.
Factories. Water towers. Old neighbourhoods. Roads leading east toward the lake.
Farm fields rest beneath winter skies. Weathered barns stand alone against the horizon. Patches of woodland sit untouched beside the highway.
I know this route.
Not because I enjoy it.
Men in my world learn roads differently.
Where traffic narrows.
Where vehicles can be trapped.
Where eyes can hide.
Where help won’t come.
I catalogue every detail without thinking.
Still, I let Victoria keep the view.
She needs it more than I need to speak.
By the time Milwaukee rises ahead of us, the atmosphere inside the SUV has changed.
The skyline appears piece by piece.
Buildings emerge beyond the highway.
Roads split.
Signs crowd together.
Traffic thickens, though not with Chicago’s impatience.
This city moves differently.
Slower.
Older.
Less concerned with appearances.
Victoria sits a little straighter.
The driver takes the exit without instruction. He already knows the area, only not the final destination.
We pass modest homes, taverns on corners, gas stations, churches, and small shops.
The farther we go, the more space appears between houses.
Snowmelt fills roadside ditches.
Bare trees line long stretches of fencing.
The driver slows.
“Don Nero. The address?”
I pull the folded paper from my coat and hand it forward.
He passes it to the man beside him.
The address is entered into a separate device—one that has never touched a public network.
Victoria watches the paper.
A flicker crosses her face before she hides it.
I catch it anyway.
The driver leaves the main road.
The city fades behind us.
The road narrows and bends through a quieter area.
Some homes sit behind long lawns.
Others hide behind trees and chain-link fences.
A church stands back from a corner. A closed farm stand sits beside a gravel lot where two rusted trucks have been left to decay.
Beyond that, open land stretches farther than expected.
Not countryside.
Not city.
The kind of place people choose when they don’t want questions.
The driver slows again.
“This is it.”
Victoria stops breathing.
Only for a moment.
The house comes into view at the end of a narrow drive.
Small.
Pale siding.
Dark roof.
A porch with two steps.
Bare trees standing on either side.
No cars.
Curtains closed.
A mailbox with fading numbers.
Too quiet.
The driver pulls over before entering the drive.
Nobody moves.
My man checks the road behind us.
Victoria stares at the house.
Her grip tightens around the edge of the seat.
I reach across the space between us and cover her hand before she can dig her nails into her skin.
Her gaze drops to our hands.
Then lifts to mine.
“Is this where you wanted to come?”
Her lips part.
The answer takes a moment.
“Yes.”
The word barely rises above a whisper.
Outside, wind moves through the trees.
No barking dog.
No movement behind the curtains.
No one opens the door.
I study the house.
Then look back at Victoria.
“Stay in the car.”
Her head snaps toward me.
“Lorenzo—”
“Stay.”
I release her hand and reach for mine.