6. Lorenzo
LORENZO
“You know I don’t object to violence when violence is necessary,” Hugo DeLuca says the moment I push open the office doors.
“But if your conflict with the Ricardos escalates into a full-scale war, the chaos won’t stop with your families.
Every judge in Cook County will need federal protection, and federal marshals guarding their homes around the clock. ”
I loosen the cuff at my wrist and walk past him toward the liquor cabinet built into the far wall of the study.
Rain taps softly against the long stretch of windows overlooking the private docks below the estate cliffs.
Beyond the dark glass, the lake moves under the evening sky, black and restless.
I pull a crystal bottle of Macallan 25 from the cabinet and pour two fingers into a heavy tumbler.
Hugo watches me from one of the leather chairs near the fireplace.
Grey suit.
Grey tie.
Grey hair cut close against his skull.
The man has spent thirty years defending monsters in courtrooms and still somehow looks cleaner than priests.
“You’re quiet,” he says carefully.
I take a slow sip of the whiskey before answering.
“They tried to bury me in my own city yesterday.”
His jaw tightens.
“I heard enough already from Mateo. Francesco made a mistake.”
“Mistake?” I glance at him over the rim of the glass. “A mistake is parking your car in the wrong garage. Sending Volkov shooters into my territory during a peace negotiation is disrespect.”
“The Russians are desperate since the Montreal seizures,” Hugo says. “Francesco is young. Young men think desperation makes them intelligent.”
“He sat at my table while he sent another man to aim a gun at my spine.”
Silence settles over the room for a moment.
The fire cracks softly behind Hugo’s chair.
“You know what concerns me?” he says finally. “Not the attack. You survive attacks. Chicago expects that from men like you.” He leans forward, elbows resting against his knees. “What concerns me is what happens after you answer.”
I swirl the whiskey once.
“They should have considered that before yesterday.”
“That answer is exactly why I drove here personally instead of calling.”
I walk around the desk slowly, setting the glass beside a stack of untouched reports. The office lights reflect against the polished walnut surface.
Hugo exhales through his nose. “Lorenzo... listen to me carefully. If the docks shut down, unions panic. If unions panic, politicians panic. If politicians panic, the feds start leaning into every business tied to both your names. You start dropping bodies across the ports, the entire city catches the fever.”
I rest one hand against the back of the chair.
“And whose fault is that?”
His eyes meet mine.
“You already know the answer.”
“No,” I reply quietly. “I know who opened the door.”
The grandfather clock near the bookshelf ticks once.
Twice.
Then I reach for the intercom sitting near the lamp on the desk.
I press the button.
“Mateo.”
Static crackles briefly before his voice answers. “Boss.”
“Where are you?”
“South perimeter.”
“Good. Listen carefully.” I glance once toward the dark windows.
“Tonight, every Ricardo warehouse south of Navy Pier gets visited. No fires. No civilians. No women. No children. I want trucks stopped, manifests taken, accounts frozen, and every foreman carrying a Ricardo or Casa Cardo paycheck, reminded who controls the water they sail on.”
Mateo says nothing.
I continue.
“Any Russian operating beside them loses protection immediately. I don’t care what badge they wear or what neighbourhood they hide inside. If Volkov men breathe near our ports tonight, they disappear.”
“Understood.”
“Tommaso with you?”
“He just arrived.”
“Put him on.”
A shuffle. Then another voice.
“I’m here, Don.”
“Take six men to the customs office on Halsted. Quietly. Pull all Ricardo clearances scheduled for the next seventy-two hours. Every container stays sitting in the harbour until I say otherwise.”
“That will cost them millions by morning.”
I lean back.
“That’s the point. You don’t start by putting a bullet in a man’s head. You start by taking away the things that keep him standing. His money. His business. His friends. His confidence. Brick by brick, you pull the whole house down around him.”
“And when the house is gone?”
“Then,” I say, “we deal with the men still standing in the rubble.”
Tommaso pauses. “And Francesco?”
I pick up the glass again.
“Not tonight.”
The answer hangs heavier than violence.
Because men fear delayed punishment more than immediate rage.
“Understood,” Tommaso says quietly.
I end the call.
Hugo leans back slowly in the chair, rubbing one hand across his mouth.
“That,” he mutters, “is exactly the kind of conversation that turns courtrooms into graveyards.”
I take another drink.
“You’ll stay employed for years.”
His stare sharpens at me, somewhere between irritation and resignation.
“Jesus Christ,” he says under his breath. “Sometimes I genuinely forget you’re still your father’s son.”
“My father would’ve sunk three ships before dinner.”
“That’s what worries me.”
A knock sounds against the office door.
Three measured taps.
“Enter.”
The door opens, and Doctor Luciano Baresi steps inside, carrying a slim leather folder tucked beneath one arm.
He removes his glasses as he walks in, exhaustion sitting heavily beneath his eyes.
“Counsellor,” he nods toward Hugo first.
“Doctor.”
Then his attention shifts toward me.
“She’s awake.”
The room stills slightly.
I move around the desk again. “How long?”
“Approximately forty minutes.”
“And?”
Luciano studies me carefully before answering.
“The physical injuries are manageable. Soft-tissue bruising along the left shoulder and clavicle from the collision, superficial cuts, and a mild concussion.” He pauses. “The psychological damage concerns me more.”
Hugo’s expression narrows. “Damage?”
Luciano opens the folder slowly.
“She’s suffering dissociative regression.”
The fireplace crackles softly again.
I say nothing.
The doctor continues carefully.
“She remembers fragments of her past clearly. But the recent trauma appears... fragmented.” He chooses the word precisely. “Her mind rejected portions of the last several years.”
“She knows who she is?” Hugo asks.
“Partially.”
Luciano slips his glasses back on.
“She remembers the name Victoria. Nothing beyond it with certainty. Her surname disappears whenever she attempts to say it aloud.” He flips one page inside the folder.
“Her memory keeps returning to a masquerade event from nearly a decade ago. She believes she recently discovered Francesco Ricardo with multiple women before an engagement arrangement.”
Hugo frowns. “That happened ten years ago?”
Luciano nods once. “Likely. Her mind attached itself to an older emotional wound because it feels safer than processing the present.”
I walk toward the windows slowly.
Behind the glass, the private shoreline below the estate disappears into darkness.
“She remembers the shooting?” I ask.
“Fragments.” Luciano folds the folder closed again. “She remembers traffic. Gunfire. Running. And...” His eyes flick briefly toward me. “She remembers the river.”
The office falls quiet.
Hugo shifts slightly in his chair.
“The execution?” he asks.
“She saw enough.”
I stare out toward the water.
Luciano continues carefully. “When I questioned her about names, she reacted strongly to yours and Francesco Ricardo’s. Fear responses. Elevated pulse. Disorientation.” He pauses. “But the memory itself refuses to settle properly.”
“She thinks she’s still preparing for the wedding?” I ask.
“Yes.”
A bitter amusement almost touches my mouth.
“Interesting.”
Luciano studies me cautiously. “This is not performance, Lorenzo. Trauma can fracture chronology completely. For her, the brain is protecting itself by rearranging reality into older memories that feel survivable.”
Hugo mutters quietly, “Christ.”
“She asked to leave repeatedly,” Luciano says. “She believes Francesco will kill her if he finds her here.”
“He will,” I reply.
Neither man answers that.
I turn back toward the desk.
“Can she be questioned?”
Luciano’s expression hardens instantly. “Not aggressively.”
“I didn’t ask for a lecture.”
“And I’m giving you one anyway.” The doctor rarely raises his voice, but this time his tone leaves no room for argument.
“If you push her too hard, too fast, her brain may resist recovering those memories. She could end up losing even more of them permanently.”
Hugo folds one ankle over his knee. “Can she recover the missing memories naturally?”
“Yes,” Luciano says. “But not under pressure.”
I look toward him directly.
“She remembers enough to know Francesco used the wedding as cover.”
“Possibly.”
“She said anything useful?”
Luciano hesitates.
Then nods once.
“She mentioned the alliance. The ports. Guards at the cathedral. She referenced North Atlantic routes before correcting herself mid-sentence.”
Hugo’s eyes flick toward mine immediately.
“She knew,” he says quietly.
“She knew pieces,” Luciano corrects. “Whether she understood their significance is another matter.”
I move back behind the desk.
The whiskey burns warmer now.
“Counsellor.”
Hugo looks up.
“I want everything.”
His expression stays still.
“Everything?” he repeats.
“Every school record. Every bank account. Every phone call. Every friend she buried and every man she kissed before Ricardo touched her life.” My voice stays calm. “I want private records, not newspaper articles.”
Luciano watches silently now.
I continue.
“Find out why the marriage became useful that particular day. Who benefited from the ceremony. Why the ports mattered enough to risk open conflict.” I set the glass down beside the intercom. “Anyone tied to it gets uncovered.”
Hugo nods once slowly.
“I’ll need judges paid before midnight.”
“Pay them.”
“And if federal names appear?”
“Then we buy federal names.”
The lawyer studies me for a long second.
“You already think this reaches beyond Francesco.”
“I know it does.”
Rain slides harder against the windows now.
Luciano closes the folder under his arm.
“There’s another issue.”
I glance toward him.
“She’s already wary of you.”
“That happens often.”
“This is different.” The doctor’s voice lowers. “She doesn’t see you as a man yet. She sees you as the last thing standing beside a corpse in the river.”
Silence.
Then Hugo says quietly, “Hard image to recover from.”
I ignore him.
Luciano steps closer to the desk.
“She asked one question repeatedly after waking.”
“What question?”
“Where is he?”
The room is still again.
“She meant me?”
“Yes.”
I lean back slightly against the edge of the desk.
“And?”
Luciano studies me carefully before answering.
“I think part of her already understands you’re the reason she’s still alive.”
The grandfather clock ticks slowly again somewhere behind us.
Then Hugo rises from the chair with a tired sigh, straightening the front of his suit jacket.
“Well,” he mutters, reaching for his coat. “Looks like I should clear my schedule for the next six months. Murder trials are about to become seasonal.”
Luciano doesn’t smile.
Neither do I.
Hugo pauses near the office doors before looking back toward me one final time.
“Lorenzo.”
“What.”
“If you’re planning to burn Chicago down…” His eyes flick once toward the hallway leading deeper into the estate. “Try not to do it while the girl’s still inside the house.”
The door closes behind him.
The office is quiet again.
Luciano remains standing near the fireplace.
“She’s awake now,” he says again carefully. “But don’t expect consistency. One moment, she understands exactly where she is. Next, she thinks she’s ten years in the past.”
I loosen the knot of my tie slightly.
“Fear does strange things to memory.”
“Yes,” Luciano replies softly. “Especially when survival depends on forgetting.”
I pick up the whiskey glass one last time.
The amber catches the low light.
Then I set it down untouched.
“Which room?”
“East wing. Second corridor.”
I head for the door.
Behind me, Luciano’s voice follows quietly.
“Don Lorenzo.”
I stop.
“She’s not one of your dock workers. Please don’t interrogate her like one.”
I open the office door.
The hallway beyond stretches long and dim beneath the estate chandeliers.
“She ran into gunfire instead of going back to Francesco Ricardo,” I say without turning around. “That already tells me more about her than most people say in a lifetime.”
Then I walk out into the corridor toward the woman who no longer remembers why the city is trying to kill her.