4. Alessio #2
“I know,” I say. I reach out and grab my jacket from the back of the chair. “That’s why we’re going tonight. Not to kill him. Not yet. We’re going to tag the network. We’re going to find out exactly where the switch is anchored.”
I turn to her, my hand out. It’s an invitation. A command. A promise.
“You said you wanted to hunt, Amara. Grab your shoes, your kit, and anything you need to work a server under pressure. We leave in ten.”
She looks at my hand, then up at my face. The runner in her is screaming, I can see it in the way her shoulders tense. But the woman who loved Curtis Osei is stronger.
She reaches out and takes my hand. Her fingers are cold, but her grip is iron.
“Ten minutes,” she says.
I pull her toward me, one last time, my chest tight. “Stay close. If things go loud, you move to the car and call the number I give you. We do not improvise unless we have to.”
She gives me a sharp, sassy little smirk that makes my heart skip a beat. “You clearly haven’t been paying attention, Alessio. I don’t follow directions well. But I’m not leaving you behind.”
I lead her out of the basement, my mind already mapping the route to the South Loop. For the first time in eleven years, the war has shifted. Not ended. Shifted. The secrets are coming out, the lines are being drawn, and I’m not fighting alone.
As we head toward the garage, we pass the kitchen. Turi is there, sitting at the small table with a cup of tea, the soft glow of the stove light illuminating his silver hair. He looks up as we pass, his eyes kind, watchful.
“Going out, Alessio?” he asks, his voice a warm rumble.
“Just a drive, Turi,” I say, my heart giving a strange, painful tug.
I hate lying to him. I hate more that some part of me is listening to how he answers.
He’s the one who held me after my mother was killed, when grief had nowhere clean to go.
He’s the one who taught me how to keep my head down and my eyes open.
Which is exactly why I can’t bear to turn that lesson on him.
“Be careful,” Turi says, his gaze shifting to Amara. He offers her a small, encouraging smile. “The city is cold tonight. Make sure she’s wrapped up warm.”
“I will,” I promise.
We keep moving, but the weight of Turi’s gaze follows me.
He looks so frail in the dim light, so peaceful.
I think about the traitor I’m hunting, the person who sold our parents out for a debt.
I look at Turi and feel the old, desperate need to believe at least one thing in this house is still pure.
We reach the garage, the smell of gasoline and expensive leather replacing the scent of old paper. I head for the black SUV, the one with the reinforced plating and the untraceable tags.
Amara stops by the passenger door, looking at the vehicle, then back at the house.
“He really loves you,” she says softly. “Turi. He looks at you like you’re the sun.”
“He raised us,” I say, opening the driver’s side door. “After the massacre, most people would have run. The Costas were a sinking ship. But Turi stayed. He kept eleven grieving Costas alive and turned the younger ones into men while the older ones learned how to become weapons. I’d die for him.”
“I know the feeling,” she says, her voice low. “I would have died for Curtis. I almost did, a few times.”
I walk around the car, stopping in front of her. I don’t touch her, but I’m close enough to feel the heat of her body. “You don’t have to die for this. Neither do I, if we do it right.”
She scoffs, but there’s no bite in it. “You’re very bossy, you know that? It’s a miracle your family haven’t revolted.”
“They try,” I say, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. “They usually fail. Now, get in the car.”
She slides into the seat, and I close the door, the thud echoing in the quiet garage. I get behind the wheel, my hands gripping the leather of the steering wheel. My hands ache around the wheel, old scar tissue pulling tight over the knuckles.
I look at the house one last time before I hit the remote for the gate. Somewhere in there, a traitor is sleeping. Somewhere in there, my brothers are dreaming of a peace they’ve never known.
I look at Amara. She’s staring straight ahead, her jaw set, her hands folded in her lap. She looks like a woman going into battle with numbers instead of armor.
The gates hum open, revealing the dark, wet streets of Chicago. The city is a body full of hidden arteries, and tonight, finally, I know where to cut.
“Ready?” I ask.
She turns to me, and the look in her eyes is enough to bring a man to his knees. “Let’s go find Vane.”
I floor it, the engine roaring as we burst out into the night.
The drive to the South Loop is silent, but it’s not an empty silence. It’s thick, pressurized. Every time I reach for the console, my arm brushes hers. Every time I check the mirrors, I see her reflection, watching me. I can feel her questions, her doubts, her mounting adrenaline.
I know this part of the city. It’s a graveyard of industry, all crumbling brick and rusted iron. It’s where the Bellantis do their dirtiest work because the shadows here are deeper than anywhere else.
I pull the SUV into a narrow alley three blocks away from the coordinates. I cut the lights and the engine. The world goes black and quiet except for freezing rain ticking against the roof.
“We walk from here,” I whisper.
I reach into the back seat and pull out a tactical vest. I hand it to her. “Put this on. Under your coat.”
She takes it without argument. Her hands are steady as she buckles the straps. I put on my own, then check my sidearm. The weight of the metal is familiar, a grim comfort.
“Do you have a weapon?” I ask.
She pulls a small, sleek pistol from her waistband. I recognize the model—high-capacity, low-recoil. It’s a professional’s tool.
“I’ve carried since I was twenty-one,” she says. “I don’t like being defenseless.”
“Good,” I say. I reach out and tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger on her skin. I want to say too much, and none of it belongs in an alley three blocks from Vane.
But the words get stuck in my throat. I’m not a man of words. I’m a man of action.
“Stay behind me,” I say instead.
We slip out of the car and into the rain. The cold is a shock, biting through my layers, but I welcome it. It keeps me sharp. We move like shadows, sticking to the walls, our footsteps muffled by the trash and debris littering the alleyway.
The building is an old printing press, four stories of soot-stained brick and boarded-up windows. It looks abandoned, but I can see the faint shimmer of a high-end security camera tucked under the eaves.