chapter 3

Antonio's POV

The meeting is in an old restaurant in Little Italy, right on Morgan Street. Even from behind the windshield, I see that the place is quiet. No patrons. No music.

I step out of my car, perceiving the aromas of garlic, tomato sauce, and freshly baked bread coming from the many Italian restaurants and bakeries that line the street.

I walk to the door. Catch a whiff of fresh flowers coming from vases lining both sides of the building. I put my hand on the knob, push it open. And the first person I see as my eyes adjust is Amari.

**********

Some weeks earlier.

It is a cold, rainy night in Chicago. Under the dripping rain, the streets look like a fictional paradigm. Too many colors. Vibrant nightlife. Diverse population. As unreal as it can all get.

I sit in my Cadillac parked on Lakeview. Sleek and black. A thirty-fifth birthday present for myself.

The leather seats creak as I shift my weight. I can feel the pulse of the city around me. The noise of the traffic and the lights of the city reflected in the wet pavement. My eyes are fixed on the large, imposing building in front of me. I know what I have to do. Been planning this moment for years, and I feel ready.

I move my eyes to the side view mirror as a vehicle takes the fork into the street. It stops, and the headlights blink three times. I checked my watch. Right on time. I take my Colt Python and stuff it into the waistband of my jeans. Slowly, I step out of the birthday present and wait for the people in the car to come over.

There are four of them. But they look enough.

"Chilly night, capo."

"Won't hear nor feel us coming, Francesco. You ready?"

"Si, capo," they all chorus.

"Just need you out here, ready for when the bullets start firing. I'll go in alone so they think I've lost my mind coming in alone. Capito?"

They said they do.

"Your uncle is in the safe room," Francesco says.

"Cowards love to hide," I quip.

"Barracudas in the back, capo," Juto points out. "Want a piece?"

"I've got my piece," I tell him, and with a determined stride, I approach the front gate.

*********

Lakeview is located on the north side of Chicago, right on the shore of Lake Michigan. Like a head to a body. Known for its eclectic mix of restaurants, bars, and shops, as well as its easy access to the lakefront. It's a lively neighborhood with a diverse population and a goddamn place to live if you want to be close to the action. Which should be the only reason my father situated the family house here. Plus, it's a short drive or train ride away from the Loop, so one can easily get to the heart of the city when one needs to.

As I reached the front door, the guards stepped forward, their faces grim. From what my men have told me, I know that the last floor of the building is heavily guarded. The thing is, that's my destination anyway.

"Spiegati," one of them said, his hand resting on the gun at his hip.

He doesn't know who I am. Good. I meet his gaze, unflinching. "Soni qui per verdere il capo, mio zio."

The guards look at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, one of them nods, and they step aside, allowing me to pass.

This looks too easy.

I walk through the lobby and feel the guards' eyes on my back as I go. I take the stairs to the top floor. As I ascend, I take out my gun, check the mag, and check the spares in my ankle holster. The staircase runs to a stop and opens onto another hallway lined with armed guards.

They stare at me. And I feel the tension in the air tighten like a Roman knot. I need to move quickly. Without hesitation, I rush up the remaining steps, my feet pounding on the marble floor.

On instinct, one of the guards draws his gun and fires a shot at me. I duck, as the bullet flies past my head. I spin around, my gun hand out, and fire back. The bullet hits the guard square in the chest, and he crumples to the ground. I don't pause, just keep running. More guards emerge from the shadows, and the hallway erupts into chaos.

I fired shot after shot, the sound of the gunfire reverberating through the hallway. The sensible ones take cover, but I am too relentless, so they drop dead with the slightest error, my aim ever correct. I have to get to the safe room, no matter what. I turn a corner and see the door that leads to the safe room in front of me. It is heavily reinforced, and very clear that I will have to use force to get through it. Without hesitation, I change the mag and fire at the door, the bullets ricocheting off the metal. But I don't stop. I keep firing, and the door begins to buckle.

Finally, with one last shot, the door gives way, and I slither into the room. I find myself in a large, dimly lit space. There is a desk in the middle of the room, and behind it, a man sits in a leather chair. I recognize his face.

"Luigi," I say. He's my uncle's henchman. Bloody arse wiper.

Luigi Demarco looks up at me, his eyes cold and calculating. "I've been expecting you."

My grip on the Colt Python tightens. "Oh, Luigi. But I didn't get an invite."

"Sarcastic," he comments. "And quite deft are you."

"That's what you get when you employ dumb guards. Why waste money on their suits when they are useless?"

"Did you come here to banter, Antonio?"

My eyes scan the table. I don't see any weapon on it. And both his hands are flat on the surface. Doesn't seem like they'll be going anywhere soon. My eyes move to the door behind him. He notices this change of sight. The man in the chair leans back, a smirk on his face.

"You think you can get into the safe room?" he says, his voice mocking. "It's impenetrable. No one can get through that door."