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"Technically we didn't have a wedding. How many funerals are we having?"
"Three, including Father Paul. At least for now, we got four more in questionable states. Two more were shot, but it was a clean through and through to their shoulder. A handful of others have grazes."
"Fuck," I say as I scrub my hand over my face.
We could have as many as seven dead, all from a fucking wedding that we didn't even want.
"They're on our side?" I hope that no one on Diana's side got shot.
They aren't involved in this life, at least not yet; they don't deserve to be hurt like this.
"All ours and no young ones."
"Good, that's good." I'm relieved that none of the children got hit.
Not only would that be tragic, but it would also escalate the situation on our end.
The situation is already going to be volatile; the last thing we need is to add more fuel to the fire with a hurt kid. "Alright, what do we know?"
"Well, we got a shitload of cops running around like chickens with their heads cut off. So far it doesn't look like they want to be a team player with the Feds. Works in our favor because we got no Feds on the payroll. A few of us did a cursory look, and based on the trajectory angles, there had to be more than one shooter. We don't have anything on the second shooter, but the rounds from the first shooter were homemade, blue titanium tips."
"Atwell," I state.
Fuck. Damon Atwell, a former hitman for my father.
I don't know exactly what went down between them.
I just know that their business contract was ripped up.
It's surprising because my father has been using Atwell for twenty years.
The man is good.
One hell of a shot and he has no problem doing up close and personal kills.
It all just depends on what his clients are looking for.
Even though my father uses him, he isn't locked down to our family, something Atwell requests.
He wants to continue to be a freelancer and not be tied down to one client.
It makes sense, he makes more if he is fluid and can go anywhere he wants or his clients need him to.
The man is cold though.
Ice water in his veins, has no problem torturing and killing anyone.
The only line in the sand the man has is children.
Which means the shots are designed to not hit a single child that is here today.
"We've reached out to some of our contacts, and best we can tell, he's working for the Russo family."
"Of course he is," I say with a shake of my head.
Within Chicago, there are only so many factions of the Italian mafia.
Most of which get along just fine, we're all "family," you could say.
