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There was a pause as Wolfe digested the information.
“Angelo’s father?” he asked.
Another crashing sound exploded in the air, and our vehicle flew three feet forward as they smashed into us again. My head hit the steering wheel.
I let out a breathless groan.
“Francesca, where are you?” Wolfe’s voice grew tighter.
I looked around, trying to find signs.
“I-190,” Smithy said, snatching my schoolbag from under his feet and looking for my phone. “I’m going to call the police.”
“Don’t call the police,” Wolfe shot out.
“What?” Smithy and I yelled in unison.
Bandini’s guys were getting close to us again. The Cadillac coughed and made a terrible sound. The bumper was scratching over the road, dragging over the concrete.
It reminded me of the noise vehicles on the videogame Grand Theft Auto made before they burst into flames. Angelo and his brothers used to play that game all the time during our summers in Italy.
Angelo always won.
“I’m coming for you. Take the Lawrence Avenue exit.” I heard Wolfe picking up his keys.
I didn’t remember ever seeing him drive. Ever. Either he was driven, or he sat next to me as I drove around the neighborhood.
“I’m not a good driver.” I tried to keep my emotions under control, reminding him that he shouldn’t be as sure as he was of my abilities to get us out of this in one piece.
My eyes looked for the exit he was talking about, my eyeballs running maniacally in their sockets.
“You’re an excellent fucking driver,” Wolfe said, and I heard him zipping through traffic, breaking approximately two thousand laws based on the honking and yelling in the background. “Besides, if something happens to you, I will blow up the entire Outfit and put every Made Men in Chicago behind bars the rest of their lives, and they know it.”
“I think it’s because I married you,” I muttered, blinking away the tears so I could spot Lawrence Avenue better.
Smithy shook his head in my periphery. It wasn’t the time or the place to discuss this.
“It’s not your fault,” Wolfe said. “I threw his son in jail for the night, and his firm is under IRS investigation. He wants to get back at me through you.”
“Is it working?” My voice shook.
I heard the engine of Wolfe’s Jaguar straining against the speed. He didn’t answer me. Another bump to our car. I held back a sob.
“They’re running us off the road,” Smithy yelled, slapping the dashboard. “Can I draw a weapon?”
“Don’t you dare,” Wolfe barked. “If a hair on Francesca’s head accidentally moves…”
Just as he said that, the loudest crash of all rang in my ears at the same time that the air bag shot out, knocking our heads backward against the headrest.
White powder floated in the air like confetti. The Cadillac screeched and rolled to the side of the road, and I felt something hissing underneath us.
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t open my mouth.
I couldn’t even groan.
My nose felt like it’d been pushed to the back of my head. I wondered if I broke it. I pondered if now, that my face was all jacked, my husband would finally lose interest in me.
