I’m finished before Alina though she didn’t serve herself nearly as many pancakes. I get myself another cup of coffee and sit at the counter, watching the river out the window. The morning traffic is brisk, but the rush hour hell over the Clark Street Bridge seems to be dissipating. There are a few snow flurries in the air, but none of it is sticking to the roads.
Aside from the slight clinking and clanking of the dishes as Alina washes them in the sink, there is no sound in the apartment. I don’t offer to help; I’m pretty content to just sit here and let her do her thing. The apartment is warm despite the wintery scene out the large floor-to-ceiling windows, and it’s been a long time since I felt so relaxed. Watching her do her thing is enticing, but I must still be feeling the aftereffects of finally sleeping more than an hour or two at a time, and I’m too groggy to act on my baser instincts. I get to thinking instead.
Reflection isn’t a typical pastime of mine. I used to force myself to do it by attending regular therapy sessions with a government-approved military psychologist, but I’d stopped playing that game the last time I left Chicago. The shrink had been a good guy, and I always knew he did his best, but I am ultimately unfixable.
It’s something I’ve accepted—maybe even embraced.
I don’t reflect on anything in particular as I stare out the window. I’m reminded of other Chicago winters, traffic jams, and the spot around the bend in the river where I’ve always preferred to dump bodies. I attempt to count up the number of notches I could put on the barrel of my Barrett but quickly give up.
I lean back on the stool at the counter and stretch my neck. Usually being this calm comes from holding my rifle and narrowing in on my target. I’m attracted to that feeling of complete confidence and control—confidence that my aim will be true and control over the entire situation—life and death included. It’s elating.
I finish my third cup of coffee as Alina comes out of the bedroom, dressed in her tights and short skirt again. I glance up at the clock on the stove and see that it’s nearly eleven in the morning.
“It’s late,” I say. “I should probably take you back now.”
Alina nods, retrieves her bag from the kitchen counter, and then goes to the closet for her jacket. I grab mine as well, and we both head out to the elevator and down to the parking garage and the Camaro.
As she walks around the back of the car, I see her glance down at the sticker still affixed to the bumper. I haven’t had a chance to get it off yet. Alina presses her lips together to stop from smiling, and I glare.
“Don’t say a fucking word about it.”
She has to put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh but quickly contains herself.
I huff through my nose and get in the driver’s seat. Alina slips in beside me and buckles up. The ride back to the street corner where I picked her up is again silent.
I’m not only getting used to it; I?
?m beginning to like it.
I pull over to the side of the street and fish my wallet out of my pocket. I count off hundred dollar bills and hand the stack to her. She thumbs through it before separating the bills into two stacks. She places one stack deep into her purse and the other into her bra.
There are no words spoken as she opens the car door and quickly walks away.
I have the feeling I’m going to search for her again.
Chapter 4—Stolen Cargo
“It’s good to have you back, Evan.”
Lucia places her hand on my back as I crouch next to the Camaro, checking the contents of my duffel bag. I stand and face her, giving her a half-smile.
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s good to be back.”
“Sorry I didn’t have a chance to talk to you the other day, but I had to run off for an appointment.”
“That’s all right,” I say. I had figured she had a date with a manicurist.
Lucia looks over her shoulder toward Rinaldo and some of his crew. They’re several yards away, but she leans in closer to me anyway.
“I feel a lot better knowing you are here, protecting him,” she says. “Since Mario’s been gone, Daddy’s been through three bodyguards. None of them made me very comfortable.”
Mario had been Rinaldo’s personal bodyguard and head of security for many years before he was killed at the beginning of the Chicago mob war. Replacing a man like him is a difficult task. It’s not just a matter of being a big dude or having skills with a gun—there’s a lot more to consider.
“What do you think of Paulie?”
“He’s still too new.” Lucia shakes her head. “That’s part of the problem. Loyalty like that is cultivated, not bought. Mario went down saving Daddy. I can’t see Paulie doing the same, but you…” She runs her hand down my arm and twines our fingers together. “I know you’d do that for him, wouldn’t you?”
“Without thought.” It’s the truth, too. If there were a gun pointed at Rinaldo, I’d be between him and the gun without consideration for myself. All of my attention would be on his safety.