Chapter 31
1647words
'About fucking time," I mutter in relief. If all goes well, after tomorrow night, I wouldn't need to worry about being followed to Sapphire's neighborhood and her becoming a target.
I head toward my motorbike, my preferred ride to Sapphire's these days, as it's much less conspicuous than my other cars, but I pause when Damon gestures toward his Escalade.
'Let me drive you, fratello."
I'm on the verge of refusing, wanting the freedom my bike offers, yet in the last second, I relent, get into the front of his car and we drive off.
I'm glad to see traffic unusually light for a Monday morning. I hope it means Sapphire will get to work on time.
Actually, it might be worth giving Sapphire details of my traffic guy—the one I call when I want roads cleared of traffic. It's going to come in handy for my woman, given her inability to travel above the speed limit or run a yellow light.
'So, Damon," I begin, thinking this is as good a time as any to break the news to him. 'Orlando De Luca—"
Damon jumps in, '—loves his daughter and will be pretty fucking pissed if you keep a mistress so early on. How do you plan to handle it?"
'I've been thinking you might step up and take one for the team."
Damon pauses a heartbeat, considering this. 'I suppose it could work with a haircut and contact lens. Although the size difference is going to be a problem, Zade. I'm significantly taller—"
'By an inch, you fucking beanstalk."
We dissolve into laughter as Damon navigates the bustling city streets to head toward the less congested riverside.
'Anyway, the good news is that you won't be needing a haircut or contacts after all…" I trail off as an uneasy sensation washes over me, raising the hairs at the back of my neck and wiping the smile off my face.
Subconsciously, I'd noticed them, but only now does it click—the motorcyclists zigzagging through traffic behind us.
'We've got company," I announce, the weight of those words hinting at the trouble ahead.
Damon's only acknowledgment is a quick glance in the rearview mirror, his calm belying the gravity of the situation. 'How many?"
'Half a dozen, at least."
'Romario's men?"
'Who the fuck else would dare? Lose them."
'Great. Just what we needed," Damon's voice drips with sarcasm, barely audible over the engine's roar as he accelerates. 'Can't he just fucking die quietly tomorrow? Why make such a fuss today?"
As we approach a stop light, I notice Damon's gaze lock onto an eighteen-wheeler across the intersection. His intent is clear—he's going to gun it.
'Damon," I warn, my voice tinged with both dread and anticipation.
'Hold tight!" he calls out, a second before the force of acceleration pins me back. The world outside becomes a blur of screeching tires and the blaring protest of the truck's horn. We swerve around the truck in a heart-stopping maneuver that, under anyone's but Damon's control, would likely have ended in the car wrapped around that eighteen-wheeler.
'You psycho," I manage once my ears have stopped ringing. 'This isn't a Lambo, it's a weighted armored vehicle! I said lose them, not kill us!"
Damon's expression is a smug smile, which, another time, should earn him my fist, 'You're welcome."
'Rifle?" I ask instead.
'Floor panel, back seat. Glock's in the glove compartment."
Arming myself, I catch sight of our pursuers reemerging, all six of them. Yet, their formation is odd—spread out in a fan, almost like they're escorting rather than giving chase. For the second time today I sense that something isn't quite right.
'What, am I too fast for you, dimwits?" Damon taunts, eyeing them through the rearview mirror. 'Must be the easiest sons of bitches to shake off."
I freeze, about to tell him to slow down, when a barricade looms into view about four hundred yards ahead.
Four vans are parked nose to nose, with an almost two-foot gap between the pair in the middle. This seems laughably inadequate to deter a fast, heavy, armored vehicle like this one, which is exactly what sends a ripple of alarm through me.
'What a fucking joke that is. Looks like Romario's running out of brains," Damon muses, his tone dripping with disdain. 'Even a mobility scooter would plow through that."
'You're right." There's a chance that's a booby trap. A bomb in the worst-case scenario. The Escalade should withstand bombs to a certain degree. We could risk it.
An unexpected thought flashes through my mind. Sapphire's face. Her eyes, her quick wit and snarky mouth. She needs me alive and unhurt. Which is why I can't take that risk. 'U-turn. Now." I grab the rifle.
'Zade, a daylight shootout in downtown Chicago—"
I cut him off, 'Is more survivable than a fucking bomb."
Without further debate, Damon yanks the wheel around, and the car's tires screech in loud protest against the pavement.
I crack open the window beside me just enough to provide a clear shot. My first bullet sends a rider tumbling, his motorcycle careening out of control.
Realizing the game has changed, they scatter, becoming nimbler and more unpredictable, retaliating with a hail of bullets aimed at our tires. Damon weaves through the onslaught, but his voice comes out low and tense. 'We can't keep this up, fratello." He nods to the other cars that have started pulling over and the omnipresent street cameras.
'Lower Lower Wacker," I suggest, referring to the network of underground roads as a plan forms amidst the chaos. Damon nods in understanding and speeds through the streets until we descend into the shadowy underbelly of the city. The change is abrupt, and the darkness of the underground street envelops us. The Escalade's engine's growl becomes amplified, bouncing off the concrete like a beast roaring in its lair.
Our pursuers follow us into the darkness, their headlights slicing through the shadows like spotlights. But in this underground maze, Damon's driving turns predatory, his familiarity with the terrain giving us the upper hand.
Damon's aggressive driving forces two cyclists to crash against the concrete walls while my steady aim deals with another pair. The last one proves the most resilient, even managing to hit one of our tires.
'Figlio di puttana!" Damon swears, beyond pissed off, as the second tire blows. Without warning, he slams on the brakes, executes an emergency stop that could give an elephant whiplash, and then flings open his door. The rider, caught off guard, crashes into the side of the car. The impact sends the rider tumbling but also shears the door clean off its hinges.
Damon grabs his M-16, steps out of the car and finishes the job. He returns, his expression as stormy as ever.
'Are you satisfied now?" I ask, taking in the doorless state of his Escalade.
'He was an asshole. And what the fuck was I supposed to do? Let him take out all of my tires?" Damon's retort is sharp, laced with irritation.
'And that makes perfect sense, doesn't it?" I rub my neck, already dreading the inevitable stiffness. 'Fucking lethal driving, though, I have to say."
'You're welcome," Damon replies, a smirk playing on his lips that mirrors my own.
'Well, it's a wrap then. Let's get the hell out of here." The last thing we need is more ‘escorts' now that we're a door and two tires down.
This ambush, this brazen attempt on my life, crystallizes everything. Any lingering hesitation about dealing with Romario and his insurgents evaporates; there's no room for mercy. He dies tomorrow, or I will, eventually.
We burst out into the bright, peaceful rush of Lake Shore Drive, a contrast to the carnage we left behind.
'I should've known Romario would try something like this," I say, the adrenaline of the chase now giving way to a cold anger. 'He must know his days are numbered and he's getting desperate."
Damon nods grimly, his eyes back on the road. 'Desperation leads to mistakes. He'll be paying for this one very soon."
Arriving at the docks, we find the remaining Capos standing outside the white brick warehouse instead of waiting inside. Their anxiety is palpable in their drawn faces and Salvatore's pacing. We're over fifteen minutes late, which is unusual for me.
Their concern turns to horror the moment they see the state of the Escalade. Weapons are drawn in an instant as they brace for the worst.
'At ease fellas, it's all good," my voice cuts through the tension as I climb out of the car. 'Right, Damon?" I say with a nonchalance that belies the morning's events.
Damon slips out, then nods to his war-torn car—a patchwork of bullet holes, cracked glass, and mangled metal, not to mention its proudly missing door. 'Si, we got into a little lover's tiff on the way over here. Made a bit of a mess, too, I'm afraid." He points to his cell phone. 'I'll call a cleanup crew now."
The Capos' shock gives way to reluctant amusement, and their weapons lower as they take in the full extent of the 'little tiff."
'We can't be here—not with all this morning's excitement hanging over the city," I announce, quickly dispersing the men. 'Head on to your businesses, then catch some rest. We reconvene at the mansion tonight at ten. I expect everyone to be on their A-game. And for the avoidance of doubt, nothing has changed; the moon rises red tomorrow night for Romario."
