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I freeze, about to tell him to slow down, when a barricade looms into view about four hundred yards ahead.
Four vans are parked nose to nose, with an almost two-foot gap between the pair in the middle. This seems laughably inadequate to deter a fast, heavy, armored vehicle like this one, which is exactly what sends a ripple of alarm through me.
“What a fucking joke that is. Looks like Romano’s running out of brains,” Dante muses, his tone dripping with disdain. “Even a mobility scooter would plow through that.”
“You’re right.” There’s a chance that’s a booby trap. A bomb in the worst-case scenario. The Escalade should withstand bombs to a certain degree. We could risk it.
An unexpected thought flashes through my mind. Sophie’s face. Her eyes, her quick wit and snarky mouth. She needs me alive and unhurt. Which is why I can’t take that risk. “U-turn. Now.” I grab the rifle.
“Nico, a daylight shootout in downtown Chicago—”
I cut him off, “Is more survivable than a fucking bomb.”
Without further debate, Dante yanks the wheel around, and the car’s tires screech in loud protest against the pavement.
I crack open the window beside me just enough to provide a clear shot. My first bullet sends a rider tumbling, his motorcycle careening out of control.
Realizing the game has changed, they scatter, becoming nimbler and more unpredictable, retaliating with a hail of bullets aimed at our tires. Dante weaves through the onslaught, but his voice comes out low and tense. “We can’t keep this up, fratello.” He nods to the other cars that have started pulling over and the omnipresent street cameras.
“Lower Lower Wacker,” I suggest, referring to the network of underground roads as a plan forms amidst the chaos. Dante nods in understanding and speeds through the streets until we descend into the shadowy underbelly of the city. The change is abrupt, and the darkness of the underground street envelops us. The Escalade’s engine’s growl becomes amplified, bouncing off the concrete like a beast roaring in its lair.
Our pursuers follow us into the darkness, their headlights slicing through the shadows like spotlights. But in this underground maze, Dante’s driving turns predatory, his familiarity with the terrain giving us the upper hand.
Dante’s aggressive driving forces two cyclists to crash against the concrete walls while my steady aim deals with another pair. The last one proves the most resilient, even managing to hit one of our tires.
“Figlio di puttana!” Dante swears, beyond pissed off, as the second tire blows. Without warning, he slams on the brakes, executes an emergency stop that could give an elephant whiplash, and then flings open his door. The rider, caught off guard, crashes into the side of the car. The impact sends the rider tumbling but also shears the door clean off its hinges.
Dante grabs his M-16, steps out of the car and finishes the job. He returns, his expression as stormy as ever.
“Are you satisfied now?” I ask, taking in the doorless state of his Escalade.
“He was an asshole. And what the fuck was I supposed to do? Let him take out all of my tires?” Dante’s retort is sharp, laced with irritation.
“And that makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” I rub my neck, already dreading the inevitable stiffness. “Fucking lethal driving, though, I have to say.”
“You’re welcome,” Dante replies, a smirk playing on his lips that mirrors my own.
“Well, it’s a wrap then. Let’s get the hell out of here.” The last thing we need is more ‘escorts’ now that we’re a door and two tires down.
This ambush, this brazen attempt on my life, crystallizes everything. Any lingering hesitation about dealing with Romano and his insurgents evaporates; there’s no room for mercy. He dies tomorrow, or I will, eventually.
We burst out into the bright, peaceful rush of Lake Shore Drive, a contrast to the carnage we left behind.
“I should’ve known Romano would try something like this,” I say, the adrenaline of the chase now giving way to a cold anger. “He must know his days are numbered and he’s getting desperate.”
Dante nods grimly, his eyes back on the road. “Desperation leads to mistakes. He’ll be paying for this one very soon.”
Arriving at the docks, we find the remaining Capos standing outside the white brick warehouse instead of waiting inside. Their anxiety is palpable in their drawn faces and Salvatore’s pacing. We’re over fifteen minutes late, which is unusual for me.
Their concern turns to horror the moment they see the state of the Escalade. Weapons are drawn in an instant as they brace for the worst.
“At ease fellas, it’s all good,” my voice cuts through the tension as I climb out of the car. “Right, Dante?” I say with a nonchalance that belies the morning’s events.
Dante slips out, then nods to his war-torn car—a patchwork of bullet holes, cracked glass, and mangled metal, not to mention its proudly missing door. “Si, we got into a little lover’s tiff on the way over here. Made a bit of a mess, too, I’m afraid.” He points to his cell phone. “I’ll call a cleanup crew now.”
The Capos’ shock gives way to reluctant amusement, and their weapons lower as they take in the full extent of the “little tiff.”
“We can’t be here—not with all this morning’s excitement hanging over the city,” I announce, quickly dispersing the men. “Head on to your businesses, then catch some rest. We reconvene at the mansion tonight at ten. I expect everyone to be on their A-game. And for the avoidance of doubt, nothing has changed; the moon rises red tomorrow night for Romano.”
