Chapter 5 - Taylor Street
The rain started just as we crossed the Chicago River, turning the asphalt into a slick, black mirror that reflected the neon signs of Little Italy.
Taylor Street was quiet at this hour, save for the sleek black town cars idling outside Trattoria Moretti. It was an old-school social club masquerading as a high-end family restaurant—thick velvet curtains drawn across the front windows, a burly doorman standing beneath the striped awning, and half a dozen made men smoking cigars in the alleyway.
“We’re not going through the front,” I said, killing the Escalade’s engine half a block away.
“Boss,” Mateo said, unlacing his leather gloves and checking the magazine of his Glock. “Moretti’s got at least ten guys inside. If we kick the door in without backup, we’re walking into a slaughterhouse.”
“We’re not kicking anything in,” I replied, stepping out into the cold drizzle. “We’re going through the kitchen. Just like we did ten years ago.”
Serena stayed in the back seat, locked inside the vehicle as we had ordered, her face pressed against the fogged glass as we vanished into the shadows of the alley.
The back service entrance of the trattoria was propped open with a plastic crate to let out the steam from the dishwashing station. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of garlic, roasting meat, and bleach. A lone busboy looked up in terror as Mateo and I stepped through the swinging doors, but a single gesture from Mateo kept him silent against the stainless steel prep table.
We moved down the dim corridor toward the private back dining room, where the muffled sound of laughter and clinking glasses filtered through the mahogany double doors.
I didn't knock. I pushed the doors open with the palm of my hand and stepped into the room.
Lorenzo Moretti sat at the head of a long mahogany table, surrounded by his top lieutenants, a glass of amber whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in the other. On the table directly in front of him sat a small, black aluminum flash drive—the one Clara had been carrying in her purse when her car was smashed on 79th Street.
The laughter stopped instantly. The room went dead silent, save for the hiss of the rain against the stained-glass windows.
Moretti didn't panic. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, a thin, yellow-toothed smile spreading across his weathered face.
“Well, look what the damp dragged in,” Moretti chuckled, gesturing with his glass toward the empty seat at the other end of the table. “Word at the county hospital was your wife was in pretty bad shape, Dominic. Thought you’d be holding her hand instead of crashing my dinner party.”
I didn't sit down. I walked slowly toward the table, keeping my hands empty and visible at my sides, though Mateo stayed by the doorway with his weapon concealed beneath his coat.
“You’ve got something of mine, Lorenzo,” I said quietly.
Moretti reached out with two fingers, tapping the plastic casing of the flash drive on the mahogany wood.
“This little toy?” He shook his head, feigning disappointment. “Technically, it belongs to the estate of the late, unlamented Arthur Hayes. Or perhaps to the state of Illinois, once the prosecutors get a look at what’s stored on it. Did you know your wife was a very thorough record-keeper, Dom? She had copies of every wire transfer you’ve signed since the day your uncle handed you the keys to the kingdom.”
“Push it across the table,” I said.
Moretti laughed, a dry, grating sound that brought a flush of heat to the back of my neck. “And if I don't? What are you going to do, shoot me in front of my boys? You’ll be dead before you clear your holster.”
“Maybe,” I said, taking another step forward until I was standing right at the edge of his chair. “Or maybe I won't have to shoot you at all.”
Before Moretti could react, I reached down, grabbed the bottle of expensive scotch by its neck, and smashed it against the edge of the table, leaving a jagged, dripping shard of glass pointed straight at his throat.
The room erupted in motion. Half a dozen men reached for their pieces, but Mateo’s gun was already out, locked dead on Moretti’s chest from across the room.
“Hold!” Moretti choked out, raising a trembling hand to stop his men as the cold edge of the broken bottle pressed lightly against the skin beneath his jaw.
“Drop your weapons,” I told the room, my voice steady as stone.
Nobody moved. Moretti’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps as he stared up into my eyes, realizing for the first time that I wasn't here to negotiate.
“I’ll ask you one more time, Lorenzo,” I whispered, pressing the glass a millimeter closer. “Where is the rest of the data?”
Moretti swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the flash drive on the table. “That... that’s all of it. I swear to God, that’s everything she had.”
“You’re lying,” a voice said from the doorway.
We all turned.
Standing in the open double doors, soaked to the skin from the rain, holding a heavy-caliber revolver she had pulled from the glove box of the Escalade, was Serena.
May you like
And behind her, stepping out of the dark hallway with a cell phone glowing in his hand, was Mateo’s second-in-command, wearing a look that made my blood run instantly cold.
“He doesn't have the rest of it, Boss,” the man said quietly, looking directly at me. “Because Clara didn't give the flash drive to Moretti tonight. She gave it to us three days ago.”
