Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Alley
The icy night air hit Claret’s face like a physical slap as the executioner dragged her through the back door into the narrow alley behind Trattoria Delombra. The alley smelled of stale grease, wet asphalt, and the sharp ozone of the city night. Rain had begun to fall, a slick drizzle that coated the cobblestones and made every step a perilous gamble.
Claret was not a weak woman. She carried the strength of generations of women who had worked the harsh, rocky terrain of the Sicilian highlands. With a sudden, explosive surge of energy, she threw her head back, slamming her skull directly into her attacker’s nose.
A sickening crunch echoed through the alley. The man grunted—a harsh, wet sound—and his grip loosened just enough for Claret to twist out of his grasp. She spun around, her black waitress uniform soaked with rain, her heart hammering against her ribs.
In the dim light of a single flickering streetlamp, her attacker stared at her. He was tall, gaunt, and wore a heavy wool coat buttoned to his chin. Blood streamed down his upper lip, but his eyes were completely dead, void of any human warmth.
"You should have kept your mouth shut, girl," the man hissed, drawing a long, silver-handled blade from his coat. "The Vela name was erased forty years ago. Salvatore Russo burned your village to the ground to make sure of it."
Claret stood her ground, her boots planted firmly on the slippery wet ground. Her mind whirled. Vela. It was her grandmother’s maiden name. Nona Katarina had always told her stories of their family, but Claret had assumed they were simple fairytales from the old country—stories of proud mountain guardians who protected the honest poor from hungry wolves. She had never realized the wolves were real, and that one of them ruled Chicago.
"If my family survived his fire," Claret said, her voice steady despite the sheer terror clawing at her throat, "then your Don isn't as powerful as he thinks."
The man sneered and stepped forward, bringing the blade up in a swift, practiced arc meant to slice her throat.
Before the steel could touch her skin, a roar echoed down the alley—not a human scream, but the throaty, mechanical scream of a twin-turbo V8 engine. A matte-black SUV burst around the corner, its tires squealing against the wet pavement.
The vehicle didn't slow down. It slammed into the assassin from the side, knocking him off his feet and throwing him into a pile of overflowing metal trash cans with a thunderous clatter.
The driver’s side door flew open. Vincent Russo spilled out into the rain, his charcoal jacket discarded, his white shirt stained with dirt and grease, a heavy automatic pistol held low at his side.
"Claret!" Vincent shouted, his eyes wild with a mixture of rage and terror. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, grabbing her arms and pulling her toward the vehicle. "Get in! Now!"
"Vincent, what is going on?" Claret gasped, her breath blooming in white clouds in the freezing air. "Who was that man? What did my grandmother’s language mean to your father?"
"I’ll explain everything, but if we stay here, we’re dead," Vincent said fiercely. He guided her into the passenger seat of the massive SUV, slamming the door shut behind her before scrambling into the driver’s seat.
He threw the vehicle into reverse, the tires spitting water and gravel as he backed out of the alley at breakneck speed. In the rearview mirror, Claret saw the shadowy figure in the trash cans beginning to stir, rising like a demon from the debris.
May you like
As Vincent swung the SUV onto the main street, weaving through Chicago’s late-night traffic, he glanced at Claret. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were stark white.
"My father is dying, Claret," Vincent said softly, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine. "He has forty-eight hours, maybe less. And the answer to who poisoned him—and why—just came out of your mouth."
