3. Valentina
Chapter 3
Valentina
I ’m cold and my legs are cramped and I really wish I wore warmer clothes. It’s Chicago in the fall, and while it’s sunny and comfortable during the day, at night I’m freezing my ass off.
Cars come and go. I stay hidden on a rise overlooking an old junky garage building with two big bay doors and a ton of scraps heaped up against a chain-link fence. A hungry-looking guard dog lurks around like a ghost, and at least two men patrol the exterior, especially when the vehicles get driven in.
They always come one at a time and never overlap. There’s usually a half-hour gap between arrivals. It starts at six in the evening and doesn’t stop until six in the morning. Car after stolen car gets loaded into the bay then disassembled by an ant-hive of humans with saws and welding torches and whatever else they need. I watch and make notes and take pictures when I can, but I don’t have the best angle, and I don’t really want to move.
Three days of this. Twelve hours of staring, waiting, mind-numbing boredom, and hunger. I can’t forget the hunger. I’m on my last pack of hot dogs and ramen, and I’m stretching it out as much as I can. Which means one meal per day, max.
But I can handle it. I’m a Santoro. Worthless. Useless . I know how to suffer.
The night gets deeper. My stomach rumbles, but I just ignore it. Not much else I can do. At one point, the dog starts barking like crazy and I worry that it smells me somehow, even though I’m pretty far away, but it’s only a squirrel. I’m that paranoid.
Ronan has to go for this. I was bluffing when I said I’d go to Julien, and forget about Dusan and the Serbians. I wouldn’t go near that psycho for anything. Which leaves collecting enough information that Ronan has to see it’s a really good idea.
There aren’t enough guards. Not for the scale of this operation. And the guards they do have are lazy. They do patrols, but sporadically, and only a couple times per night. It wouldn’t be hard to sneak a dedicated group of maybe eight men around back, kick open the door, kill anyone inside, and ransack the place. Heck, I’m tempted to try it myself.
My back hurts. My arms ache from holding up my phone. I’m exhausted, and by the time the sun comes up and the car shipments are done for the evening, I’m practically delirious with hunger. It’s so damn frustrating, and as I slowly crawl away from my spot on the hill, I think about all the ways my life has let me down.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I never wanted to be the kind of girl that relied on her father’s generosity, but Dad never gave me any other option. He was controlling and protective, but he was also generous with his time and always bringing me into meetings. I learned how to run a mafia organization from one of the best that ever did it—and for a while, I dreamed about taking over the Famiglia when he was ready to pass it along, or at least spending my days in an important position within the organization.
Instead, that will never happen, because it’s all gone.
I take back roads into the city. My car keeps rumbling like it’s going to stall every time I stop at a light, but if I keep feeding it a little bit of gas, the engine doesn’t shut off. Which is fine, that’s great, the car gets me places and it’s not like I can afford better. Only I remember when life had promise, when my dad was alive and I felt like I had a reason to wake up in the morning. All for the glory of the Santoro Mafia, right?
Except the Santoro Mafia is dead.
I’m just its last bit of cast-off memory. Me and the few Capos still clinging on to their tiny fiefdoms after they tore what was left of the organization into pieces.
I feel like a ghost as I park outside of my apartment building. It’s an old brick structure with a front door that sticks and graffiti in the hallways. Marco used to joke that it’s poverty-chic, since I’m at least in a decent neighborhood, but Marco’s gone too and screw him. Everyone’s gone.
I unlock my front door and step inside—and scream when I spot a man sitting on my couch.
“I’m happy to see you too, darling.”
My heart’s racing into my throat and I’m in full on fight or flight, except I’m freezing in place. I can’t seem to move my legs, even though my head’s going, it’s only Ronan, it’s only Ronan , over and over again. He’s not here to kill you. He’s not here to finish what the Biancos started. It’s only Ronan. That doesn’t seem to help.
“Ah, shit,” he says, getting up from the couch. “I really fucking scared you. Hey, Val, you okay?”
As he approaches, I finally manage to get myself under control. When he’s close enough, I whip my hand out and punch him as hard as I can in the chest.