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He shook his head, reached to frame her face. She let him, but there was no flicker of joy or desire. “You want me to quit? I’ll quit. I’ll pack it in, go back to Washington or New York or wherever you want to go. If you just come with me, I’ll—”
“No you won’t.” Her words were soft, but all the firmer for it. She gripped his wrists, but not to cling to him—only to pull his hands away. “You’re just like them. My father’s love for me will never be stronger than his devotion to the Mafia—and your love for me will never be stronger than your hatred for it. What girl would ever want to compete with that?”
His hands fell back to his sides, useless. He didn’t want to grant that she loved Capecce, but he couldn’t exactly argue with her. But now she was saying it wasn’t just Capecce—it was him. She wanted to get away from everything that drove him, everything that shaped him, everything that made him who he was. He was the good guy, fighting the bad guys. Wasn’t he? The knight in blasted shining armor. But the princess only saw his battle scars—and the dragon reflected in his visor.
His hands balled into fists. “Fine. Go then. Marry your Mafia lawyer and have a dozen little Mafia babies. Keep the Family growing.”
She shook her head, stared at him for a long moment, and then reached for the door. She paused with her hand on the knob. “Please get out of Chicago, Roman. If you ever loved me, then do this for me. Leave now. Pack your bag and go.”
He jerked his head in what he hoped looked like a nod. He hoped too that she couldn’t see the truth in his eyes.
His last reason to consider walking away from all this closed the door behind her. And he had no idea what to do in her wake.
When Lorenzo saw Helen sitting on the floor, he and Mr. Stein both came to a quick halt at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were closed, her face pale—except for her red nose—and she looked exhausted. So why was she camping out in their hallway instead of at home resting?
“Miss Gregory?” Mr. Stein left Lorenzo’s side to move to Helen’s.
At the sound of her name, she blinked her eyes open and struggled to rise, accepting the hand her boss held out. “Oh, thank heavens. I’ve been waiting an hour, and we’re running out of time. Enzo, you have to stop your brothers. They’re going for Roman.”
“What?” The breath stopped up in his lungs. “What do you mean?” He knew what she meant—some part of him knew. But the words hung suspended in his mind, nonsensical, too horrible to be believed.
She darted a glance to Stein but apparently decided his presence was less important than her news. “I was at the speakeasy at the dry goods store last night, and someone came in to talk to them. Told them it might be necessary to take him for a ride, and that the boss wanted them to handle it. I tried to tell myself that it was nothing, but I couldn’t rest for worrying about it, so I decided to come over to tell you. And then Sabina showed up—”
“Sabina?” His stomach tied into knots.
“She was real upset—she’d just overheard her father giving the go-ahead. Came to get your help, but we didn’t have time to sit around, so she went to warn Roman, and I said I’d stay to tell you, so you could get to your brothers.”
No. His eyes slammed shut, willing this all to be a dream, a nightmare, not real. This couldn’t be happening. He’d known his brothers were being groomed, that they had probably already done more than bootlegging and running rum. But this was murder—of a federal officer.
He opened his eyes again, but he still saw Tony, hands red with blood. Val, a smoking Betsy in his hand. He saw two matching caskets at the front of Holy Guardian Angel instead of white runners and wedding flowers.
Sabina. Sweet, foolish Sabina, so determined to save others that she’d just run straight into the dragon’s teeth herself. How was he supposed to both chase after her and stop his brothers?
He had to try. He turned, ready to sprint down the stairs and to his Nash when Mr. Stein’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Just a minute, son. We’re going to pray before you go running off to save the day.”
He forced himself to relax and nodded. Drew the sign of the cross as Mr. Stein began a brief, poignant prayer for safety, wisdom, and speed. At its close, Lorenzo looked straight into his boss’s eyes, his question silent but clear.
Stein smiled and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, Lorenzo. The only action I’m going to take is to see Miss Gregory home and then keep praying. Go, stop your brothers. I’d just as soon not have to defend them.”
Lorenzo gave both him and Helen a tight-lipped smile, and then sped back outside. But where to go? Whom should he chase?
Sabina—his heart always moved first to Sabina. But he didn’t even know where Roman O’Reilly lived, so how was he supposed to follow?
He shut his eyes, tried to breathe past the invisible hand around his throat. But it squeezed. He couldn’t go after Sabina—he’d just be running without direction, chasing the wind. He had to entrust her to the hand of God. The only good he could hope to do was to follow her instruction: stop his brothers.
He flew into his Nash and squealed away from the curb, praying he could reach them before it was too late.
Sabina stepped back onto the sidewalk of crumbling bricks and looked around for a long moment. The street was empty. She spun in a frantic circle, willing the taxi to appear, as if it were just hiding behind the next streetlight. She’d paid the driver more than enough to wait for her, and he had promised he would. Now what was she supposed to do? She had no idea where she was or how to get home. Maybe she’d have been able to figure it out during the day, but night’s shadows stretched over the skyline, distorting distances and positions.
Clenching her teeth didn’t stop her jaw from quivering, and blinking rapidly didn’t make her eyes stop burning. In one direction lay the most dangerous part of Chicago, in the other the safety of home. And she had no idea which was which.
She just had to get an L platform. That was all. If she could find the nearest station, she’d be fine. Or she could just walk until another taxi drove by, hail it, climb in, and tell the driver to take her to Taylor Street.
She spun around once more, just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything, and then heaved out a breath. Much as it would grate against her pride, she’d better go knock on Roman’s door again and ask him to see her to the L, or at least to point the way. He might be angry with her, but he’d never want to see her harmed. He would help her.
Probably.
But first he had to answer his door. She knocked, called out, even tried to explain the problem through the slab of wood, but he didn’t answer.
