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“And what does that mean?”
Carmine looked at Giovanni. “Means she’s probably underwater or in a windowless room.”
“So we should circle Lake Michigan also?”
Carmine felt like he had been punched at those words. “I refuse to think that.”
“I would not believe it, either,” Giovanni said. “Volkov would not take her just to kill her. And in good news, we can cross out everywhere with a lot of windows.”
“That’ll still leave a dozen properties,” Carmine said. “How do we know which one to go to?”
“We start at the top,” Giovanni said, pointing at a location in the north side of the city. “Work our way down until we find her.”
Sighing, Carmine ran his hands down his face in frustration. “Why are you helping me, anyway? Everyone else said it was a waste of time, that it was a suicide mission.”
“They do not understand.” Giovanni’s voice was quiet as he sat down near Carmine. “I warned them the Russians would make a move, but they did not listen. The Russians invade our streets, and Sal does nothing. They harass our people, and Sal does nothing. They turn our people against us, and Sal does nothing. Now they kidnap a girl, and what does Sal do?”
“Nothing,” Carmine said. “He doesn’t do a damn thing.”
Giovanni nodded. “If somebody does not do something, they will kill our people next. I, for one, cannot sit back and allow them to.”
* * *
The day of the hearing, Vincent’s stress level was at an all-time high. The U.S. Marshals drove him and Corrado in separate cars to the Dirksen Federal Building a few blocks away. Their team of lawyers waited when they walked into the courtroom, taking seats at the defendants’ table. Corrado appeared calm and confident in his black Armani suit, the complete opposite of how Vincent felt. While it was a relief to be out of the prison attire, his button-up shirt choked him.
The government seemed confident, their lackadaisical attitudes making Vincent more nervous. A prosecutor stood, casually fixing his tie as he addressed the court. “Your Honor, we’re talking about racketeering, gambling, extortion, fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder. Each defendant is facing thirty-five counts. Releasing them would be potentially unleashing more of this onto the community. The evidence clearly suggests neither man intends to stop.”
Their lawyers argued their cases when the government was done, citing Fourth Amendment violations and unreasonable searches. They said the evidence was flimsy at best—no surveillance footage, no confessions, no DNA. The most they had were rumors and infamous names, and that wasn’t enough to take a man away from his life. Rocco Borza went on a passionate tirade about how the RICO Acts were being used to railroad innocent individuals, and how much of an injustice it was that they weren’t free. It took everything Vincent had not to laugh. He was guilty as charged, and the man beside him certainly was no saint.
The judge let out a long sigh when both sides were done. “While the government makes a good point, the Fifth Amendment guarantees no one should be deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law. We’re innocent until proven guilty in this country, and the defendants have yet to be convicted of any crimes. They can’t be remanded without bail simply because you believe they may commit a crime in the future. Therefore, the defendants’ petition for bail is granted. Fifty thousand dollars, cash bond.”
“Your honor,” the prosecutor said, standing. “We ask that the defendants surrender their passports, and that neither be allowed to leave the state.”
Mr. Borza interjected right away. “One of my clients is a well-known doctor in North Carolina, where his permanent residence is located. Demanding he stay in Illinois isn’t fair.”
“Both defendants will surrender their passports,” the judge ordered. “If Dr. DeMarco chooses to return home, he’ll have to submit to electronic monitoring.”
* * *
Celia gathered the bail money as the men were processed out of the system. It was later that evening when Vincent walked out the front doors of the jail to come face-to-face with his sister, leaning against the side of her car, her face lined with worry as if she had aged a decade over night.
“Hey, little brother.” She forced a smile. “You look like hell.”
“Look who’s talking,” he said. “You’re starting to look like Ma.”
She laughed awkwardly. “Ouch, low blow. Speaking of Mom, you should call her. She’s worried about you.”
“That woman hates me,” Vincent said. “She’s probably worried I’ll publicly disgrace the DeMarco name.”
“She doesn’t hate you. She just has a strange way of showing her love. I had to talk her out of calling the Department of Corrections to ask if the foot of your bed faced the door, since it’s bad luck. She was worried your soul would slip out while you slept.”
Despite his stress, he managed to smile. “Must be why I got lucky enough to be released today. The bed faced the other way.”
Things grew tense as they drove toward Portage Park in silence. “Did Corrado get released?”
“Yes,” she said. “He went home an hour ago.”
Vincent turned to look out the window. He wanted to ask about Carmine, but it was an answer he wasn’t ready to hear. It had been two weeks since the girl disappeared, and Vincent couldn’t imagine what his son was going through.
