17. Lorenzo
LORENZO
The van comes to a stop in the middle of the loading yard.
Its headlights cut through the rain, washing pale light across rusted fencing, concrete barriers, and pools of standing water. The engine continues running while I sit inside the SUV and watch.
That alone tells me something.
Men who stumble into a trap usually react immediately. Fear drives them toward movement. They reverse without thinking, chase impossible exits, and convince themselves speed can solve a problem judgement created.
These men do none of that. They remain where they are, which means they are thinking.
Eventually, panic begins winning the argument.
The driver’s door opens, and a young man steps out into the rain. Mid-twenties. Athletic build. Dark jacket. Ball cap pulled low over his forehead.
His eyes sweep across the yard immediately, searching and measuring distances. Then he turns toward the gate behind him and freezes.
The gates are almost closed now. He’s already surrounded and outnumbered right inside.
Marco stands beside them with two men.
Watching.
Armed.
The young man’s pace slows instantly.
I almost admire that.
The clever ones always take longer to crack.
Matthew kills the engine, and sudden silence settles over the yard. Rain strikes the steel roofing somewhere overhead. Water drips from rusted beams. Beyond the river, faint city traffic hums in the distance like another world entirely.
I open my door and step outside.
Cold air greets me first.
Rain follows.
The young man’s attention shifts toward me, and the change in his expression is immediate.
It is not recognition.
Understanding.
He doesn’t know my face.
He knows what I represent.
There is only one reason a man arrives with this many armed soldiers and looks completely untroubled by the situation.
The door shuts behind me.
Matteo steps out on my left while Rocco moves around the opposite side of the van.
Nobody rushes.
Nobody shouts.
Violence is most effective when delivered calmly.
The young man’s gaze drifts toward the gate again. Then to the passenger side of the van. Then back to me.
Interesting.
“Name.”
The word leaves my mouth quietly.
The young man swallows.
“Ryan.”
A lie.
Not even a particularly creative one.
I nod as though I believe him.
“Ryan.”
His eyes flicker again, this time toward the passenger side of the van.
Someone else is inside.
“Bring him,” I say.
Rocco opens the passenger door.
The second man nearly falls out. He is older, somewhere in his forties, thin, nervous, and already losing control of himself.
The difference between them is obvious immediately.
The younger one fears consequences.
The older one fears everything.
As soon as his shoes touch the concrete, his eyes begin darting frantically between faces, weapons and exits.
That one isn’t built for this life.
The younger man notices it too.
His shoulders tighten slightly, and I see the thought cross his face before he can hide it.
Dead weight.
I study them both in silence while rain slides from the collar of my coat.
One follows orders.
One panics.
Different problems require different solutions.
Before either of them speaks, something else catches my attention.
The young man keeps glancing toward the rear of the van.
Not enough for one to notice.
Enough for me.
I let the silence stretch while rain drums over steel and concrete around us.
“Anyone else inside?” I ask.
The older man’s breathing catches.
The younger man says nothing, but his jaw tightens.
That is enough of an answer.
Rocco has already begun moving toward the back of the van. He is careful, his weapon low but ready, his body angled away from the doors. He hears something before I do, because his head tilts slightly and his step slows.
Then the rear doors burst open.
Gunfire tears through the yard.
The first shots come from inside the cargo compartment, bright and violent in the darkness. Muzzle flashes flare through the rain. One round strikes the concrete near Marco, sending fragments skittering across the ground.
Another spark against a barrier.
A third catches one of my men high in the shoulder and drives him backwards with a sharp grunt.
Rocco drops behind the van.
Mateo draws instantly.
Marco’s men return fire.
The two hidden men in the back of the van have made their choice, and they have chosen poorly. They are trapped inside a metal box with nowhere to move, nowhere to disappear, and no chance of surviving the answer they forced from my men.
The exchange lasts only a few seconds.
Then the shooting stops.
Rain fills the silence again.
The older man stands frozen, trembling so violently that his teeth nearly chatter. The younger man’s face has lost its careful calm. He stares at the rear of the van as if he is only now realising that the plan he came with has already died.
Rocco rises first. Blood marks the sleeve of his coat where a bullet grazed him, but he does not look at it. He steps to the rear doors and pulls them wide.
Two bodies spill forward.
One lands face-first in a pool of rainwater. The other remains half inside the cargo space, a pistol still loose in his hand.
Neither moves.
Neither will.
I look at the young man standing before me. Whatever confidence he brought into the yard is thinning by the second.
Now he understands where he is.
The older man breaks first.
“We didn’t do anything.”
The younger man closes his eyes for one second, long enough to show disappointment.
I almost smile.
“We were driving,” the older man continues quickly. “That’s all. We were just driving.”
I look at him. “Then why are you shaking?”
His mouth closes.
Marco laughs softly, but the sound disappears almost as soon as it arrives.
I step forward, and neither man moves.
Again, I give the younger one credit.
He does not retreat.
He does not beg.
Not yet.
“Who sent you?” I ask.
“No one,” the older man answers immediately.
The younger man remains silent.
That tells me which one matters.
I stop directly in front of him while rainwater drips from the brim of his cap.
“You,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “What?”
“Who sent you?”
For several seconds, he holds my gaze longer than most men manage.
“Nobody.”
I nod once.
Then I draw my pistol.
The older man makes a strangled sound, half gasp and half prayer. The younger man freezes, but not from simple fear.
I can see him calculate, still searching for a path out, still believing one exists because men like him need to believe their minds are sharper than the room they are trapped in.
I raise the weapon.
Not toward him.
Toward the older man.
The shot shatters the night.
Birds explode from the roof of a nearby warehouse, and the echo bounces across steel walls before disappearing into the rain.
The older man collapses before he understands what has happened. One moment, he is standing; the next, he is not.
Silence follows.
Rain continues falling.
The younger man’s face loses colour.
There it is.
Reality.
The moment courage discovers its limit.
I lower the pistol. “Let’s try again.”
His breathing changes. Only slightly. Enough.
Mateo looks away from the body. Marco does not. Neither speaks.
I wait because patience has always been cheaper than anger.
The young man stares down at the corpse lying beside his feet. Rainwater gathers beneath the body, mixing with blood before running toward a nearby drain.
Finally, he speaks.
“Francesco.”
Nobody reacts.
Not even me.
The answer itself is not surprising. The speed of it is.
“Continue.”
His throat works. “We were told to follow you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
I lift the pistol slightly.
His answer changes immediately.
“To find the girl.”
Everything seems to pause.
The rain. The night. The yard itself.
Mateo turns his head slowly. Rocco goes still. Nobody interrupts.
The young man notices. He knows he has said something important. What he does not understand is how important.
“What girl?” I ask.
His eyes flicker.
Wrong move.
A man with nothing to hide answers immediately. A man protecting information hesitates.
Victoria’s name never leaves his mouth.
It does not need to.
I already have it.
“How do you know there is a girl?”
No answer.
I fire into the concrete beside his foot.
The crack echoes through the yard, and fragments of stone burst outward. The young man jumps violently, the first genuine crack in his composure.
“How?” I ask.
My voice remains calm, and that frightens him more than shouting ever could.
He breathes harder. Then harder still.
Finally, he says, “We heard.”
“Heard from who?”
“I don’t know.”
I walk toward him, one step at a time, and his eyes follow me.
“Try harder.”
“I swear.”
“That is unfortunate.”
His face tightens.
“Because if you do not know,” I say, “then you are not useful.”
The meaning lands immediately.
Men understand death. What terrifies them is irrelevance.
His mouth opens, closes, then opens again.
Survival finally forces the answer out.
“There was a call.”
My attention sharpens. “A call.”
“Three nights ago.”
Nobody moves.
“A man called one of Francesco’s captains.”
“Name.”
“I don’t know.”
“Continue.”
Rainwater runs down his face. “He said the woman wasn’t dead.”
For a moment, the entire yard disappears.
All I hear is rain.
“He said she was on Nero’s property.”
Beside me, Mateo goes completely still. Rocco too.
The young man keeps speaking because he understands now that stopping is dangerous.
“He didn’t give a location.”
“Then what did he give?”
“A warning.”
I assess him
“What warning?”
The young man swallows hard. “He said if Francesco wanted her back, he needed to move fast.”
Rain strikes metal somewhere above us, slow and steady.
My thoughts move through every corner of my operation. Warehouses. Shipments. Guards. Goons. Who this could be.
Someone has spoken.
Not enough to completely expose Victoria, but enough.
Enough to make Francesco start looking and put eyes on my roads.
Enough to send four men after my vehicle tonight.
The young man searches my face for a reaction.
He finds none.
“Who made the call?”
“I don’t know.”
“Voice?”
“Male.”
“Accent?”
“Chicago.”
That seems worthless.
I glance toward Matteo. His expression reveals nothing.
Because I already know what happens next.
Nobody investigates this openly.
Nobody spreads rumours.
Not yet.
The moment men suspect a leak, trust begins dying.
And trust is expensive to rebuild.
The young man continues watching me, waiting and hoping. The unfortunate thing is that he believes he has earned something.
Mercy.
Freedom.
I crouch in front of him, and his breathing accelerates immediately.
“One last question.”
He nods too quickly.
“If Francesco finds her…”
His face changes.
Not much.
Enough.
“If Francesco finds her, what?” I ask.
The answer comes after a long silence.
“He was told not to hurt her.”
Interesting.
Very interesting.
“Who told him?”
“I don’t know.”
Truth.
Finally.
I can hear it.
The young man is empty now. Everything useful has been dragged out of him. Nothing remains.
I stand, and his eyes follow me desperately.
“Don…”
The title sounds strange coming from him.
“Please.”
I look past him toward the river. Dark water moves beneath the rain, and beyond it, Chicago glows against the night. The city keeps breathing. Deals are being made. People are falling in love. People are betraying each other. People are dying.
All at the same time.
Behind me, the young man speaks again, more desperate now.
“I told you everything.”
“You did.”
Hope returns to his face.
Briefly.
Painfully.
I put a bullet through his forehead.
His body collapses beside the first, and the sound disappears into the rain.
Nobody speaks.
For several long seconds, only the weather remains.
Then Mateo exhales slowly. “Victoria.”
I slide the pistol back into its holster. “Not a word.”
His eyes narrow. “Don?—”
“Not a word.”
Silence follows.
Marco looks between us, confused by what he is not being told.
I let him stay confused.
Rocco watches the bodies without expression, waiting for instruction.
I turn toward the SUV. “Clean this.”
Nobody asks questions.
Nobody mentions the call.
Nobody mentions the girl.
Nobody mentions the possibility that someone inside my organisation is talking.
The less they know, the safer the truth remains.
I open the rear door, then stop.
Rain taps softly against the roof, and another face enters my thoughts.
A woman standing inside a laboratory.
A woman demanding better terms while staring directly into my eyes.
A woman who should have remained useful and forgettable.
Instead, she has become something far more dangerous.
Important.
If somebody outside my organisation knows she is alive and, on my property, then somebody inside my organisation has been leaking the truth to them.
I climb into the SUV. The door closes behind me.
Outside, the rain continues falling.
And somewhere across the city, a man named Francesco Ricardo still believes he is searching for Victoria.
He has no idea that tonight changes everything.
Because while he is looking for her?—
I have started looking too.