Wheels screech and horns honk as I turn off Cicero Avenue, barreling through the open gates. Turning the wheel sharply, I streak across the cracked access road behind the freight yard. My heart hammers in my chest as I slow down then jerk the wheel, coming to stop in front of our warehouse.
Thick mist rolls through the industrial corridor, swallowing the tail end of the old train tracks and creeping in coils across the lot.
I turn off the engine and step out onto the gravel lot littered with broken glass, bullet casings, and tire marks.
The brick façade that looms before me is weathered and streaked with dirt. A pair of massive steel loading doors are secured by thick sliding bolts, rust flakes around the seams. The place looks like it hasn’t been in operation for years, and that’s the idea.
Fog wraps itself around the building edges like a restless predator hiding in the gray.
Matteo, Salvatore, and Lucia are standing on the platform waiting for me. The guards are everywhere.
Wind bites my cheeks as my boots crunch against the gravel. Coming closer, I can see the grim expressions on their faces and I know that something has gone very wrong.
Lucia has tears in her eyes, Salvatore’s head is bowed, and Matteo’s posture is rigid. His jaw is clenched so tight it might break.
A distant rattle of a freight train whips through the yard, echoing the morbid tone of the moment.
“What happened?” I ask, rushing up the steps.
“It’s bad, Cipi.” Taking my arm, Matteo guides me through the doors into the warehouse. Lucia and Salvatore follow. “They sent another warning.”
Matteo’s eyes are hollow pits of exhaustion, an etch of frustration is highlighted in his pupils. He glances at me with a type of resentment. “I came to the warehouse this morning to check on the tables and there he was.”
The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as we round a stack of crates.
A body lies on the floor before us.
Fear grips me tight in its clutches.
I don’t know him.
I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.
“Who is he?” I rush over to his side.
“He was one of our new recruits, he came straight from Sicily. He’s only been here for about a week,” Matteo crosses his arm.
A pool of blood spreads beneath the victim like a dark halo, seeping into the cracks of the concrete. His limbs are twisted at unnatural angles like a marionette with its strings severed.
He stares blankly at the ceiling. Pupils wide, vacant, and glassy, consumed by death. At his temple just beneath the hairline is a gaping wound. Shredded flesh clings to the edgesand a glimpse of white reveals the broken bone. Rivers of crimson trace the contour of his cheek like paint. A deep slash runs across his throat.
But what makes the sight even worse is his parted lips, wedged between his teeth is a small chess piece.
A pawn.
Next to him is a piece of paper.
Picking it up, I see another stanza from The Raven.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
