2. Lorenzo
LORENZO
The ice in my whiskey remains still.
The amber liquid sits level in the crystal glass, unbothered by the wind slamming against the terrace windows.
Ninety stories below, Lake Michigan stretches into darkness, its shoreline curving along the city.
Cargo ships sit in the distance, waiting on signatures that decide whether they sail today or rot there another month.
To my left, through the glass partition, the hotel tower next door cuts into the grey sky. Its grand ballroom glows gold behind panoramic windows, a huge floral arch silhouetted beneath the chandeliers.
Down on the Gold Coast, traffic has finally started moving after sitting dead for the last hour.
“Boss.”
Mateo steps onto the terrace.
“The meeting on eighteen is running over.”
I take a slow sip of whiskey. “Francesco’s people aren’t delaying. They’re trying to figure out how much they can afford to lose.”
Mateo says nothing.
“Give them five more minutes.”
The whiskey burns down my throat, warm and sharp. Francesco Ricardo came in expecting a traditional partnership, old money, old rules, old power. He’s still clinging to his father’s name like it means something in this city.
It doesn’t.
Not when the water his ships need to cross the Atlantic belongs to the Nero Syndicate.
My phone vibrates against the marble table.
I pick it up and press it to my ear. “Tell me.”
“The signature is on the page,” Marco says. His voice comes through clean and calm from the executive floor of the neighbouring tower. “Ink is dry.”
“Did they fight the split?”
“They tried.”
Paper rustles on the other end. “Their legal team pulled the original manifest from three years ago. They pushed for equal partition on the North Atlantic routes. Claimed the harbour expansion was fully funded by Ricardo’s capital before the old man died.”
I lean back in my chair, running my thumb along the rim of the glass. “And your response?”
“I handed them the updated federal customs mandates,” Marco says. “Then I told them that if the sixty-forty split wasn’t signed by the time my phone rang again, every one of their cargo containers would sit in the St. Lawrence Seaway until the iron rusted through.”
A corner of my mouth lifts.
“They signed,” he adds. “Francesco’s lawyer looked like he was about to stop breathing, but the documents are secured.”
“Bring them down.”
“We’re heading to the lobby elevator now,” Marco says. “Do you want the sedan brought to the front canopy?”
“No. Use the main garage line. I’ll meet you at the lower transport deck in nine minutes. If I’m delayed, Mateo will take point.”
“Yes, boss.”
I end the call and slide the phone into the inside pocket of my suit jacket. Then I straighten my cuffs.
Mateo and Silas fall into step behind me without a word, their timing exact, their silence trained.
We cross the lounge toward the private elevator bank. The hostess at the front desk keeps her eyes fixed on her screen, but I catch the tiny pause in her hands as we pass. The centre elevator is already open, waiting.
“Proceed to the main transport vehicle,” I tell Mateo as the silver doors slide apart. “I’m taking the secondary service lift to the third-floor parking deck. I’ll drive the sedan back to the estate alone.”
Mateo stops. His gaze sweeps the empty corridor behind me. “Protocol requires we remain with you, Don.”
“The floor is clear, Mateo. Go.”
Neither of them argues.
They step into the elevator and lower their heads before the doors shut, sealing them inside and leaving the hallway quiet.
I turn away from the mirrored corridor and the plush carpet, heading instead for the private service elevators.
That’s when I see her.
A flash of white silk slices through the dim service hallway.
A woman stumbles out from the intersecting corridor to my right, moving fast, uneven on her feet. Her heel catches in the hem of a wedding gown. White silk and lace spill around her like a wave, too soft, too bright against the hard grey of the industrial walls.
She doesn’t look back.
She reaches Elevator 9 and slams her hand against the call panel.
The doors open immediately.
She slips inside, wedding gown gathered in her fists, and disappears just before the metal doors close and cut off her reflection.
A second later, shouting erupts from somewhere deeper in the corridor.
The concrete swallows the words before they reach me.
My hand goes under my jacket. I pull the pistol from the holster beneath my arm, keeping it low against my thigh as I scan the hallway.
Nothing.
No movement near the kitchen entrance.
No footsteps.
No one.
The corridor stays empty.
I slide the gun back into place, but I keep my hand inside my jacket.
The digital display above Elevator 9 is already dropping.
Eighty-four.
Eighty-three.
Eighty-two.
Interesting.
Brides don’t run through service corridors.
And they sure as fuck don’t know which routes avoid the cameras near the freight exits.
She does.
I step toward the staff elevator and hit the call button.
A low mechanical hum vibrates through the floor.
The doors open.
Empty.
I step inside and press for the third floor.
The elevator descends.
When the doors part again, cold air rushes in carrying the smell of damp concrete and exhaust. The parking garage stretches out in rows of fluorescent light and oil-stained cement. Luxury cars sit under the yellow glare, silent, glowing in some part, dim in another.
My sedan waits fifty feet away beneath a bank of security lights.
A shadow moves near the trunk.
Faint. Easy to miss.
Then I hear it, the scrape of a rubber sole shifting against concrete grit.
I keep walking.
My pace doesn’t change. My hands stay visible. I don’t look toward the pillar. I reach into my right pocket, pull out the key fob, and keep moving toward the driver’s side door like I haven’t noticed a goddamn thing.
A man steps out from behind the pillar.
His arm is already up.
A grey silenced pistol points straight at my chest.
I drop my weight and shift left before he can lock his aim. My palm drives hard into the base of his wrist, snapping the angle of the gun upward.
A muffled shot cracks into the air.
Stone chips from the overhead beam.
Before the bastard can recover, I slam my shoulder into his sternum. Air punches out of him in a strangled choke. I seize his forearm and twist down hard until the radius strains and his grip breaks.
The pistol hits the concrete.
He lunges with his free hand, going for the knife tucked at his waistband.
I catch him by the throat and drive him backwards into the driver’s side door of my sedan. Metal groans under the impact. His boots skid against the front tyre, eyes wide as his breath sticks in his windpipe.
“Quiet,” I say.
With my free hand, I reach into my breast pocket, pull out a folded silk handkerchief, and shove it deep into his mouth.
He gags instantly.
His fingers claw at my cuffs as I rip open the driver’s door storage compartment and grab the roll of heavy adhesive tape inside. I wrap it around his jaw twice, sealing the cloth behind his teeth.
His chest heaves. He’s still conscious.
But he won’t make a sound.
I hit the trunk release on the key fob.
The lid clicks open.
Then I grab him by the belt and the collar of his jacket and haul him off the car, dragging his dead weight to the back. I shove him into the trunk beside the spare tyre. He lands hard with a dull thud, knees folding toward his chest.
I slam the trunk shut.
Then I get into the driver’s seat, pull the door closed, and shift into drive.
The tyres squeal lightly over the slick concrete as I guide the sedan toward the exit ramp.
The second level is empty. Rows of luxury cars sit in darkness beneath the low beams, untouched, silent. I keep my foot off the accelerator and let the engine idle us down the incline toward street level.
Fifty yards ahead, the iron exit gate waits.
Beyond it, grey Chicago morning light bleeds through the concrete barriers.