Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Cicero and the Moretti Syndicate
“You have a very inconvenient habit of meddling in family business, Evelyn.”
The voice was low, smooth, and utterly devoid of panic.
Evelyn’s spine slammed against a cold concrete pillar in the sub-basement corridor. The hand lifted from her mouth, but a heavy forearm pinned her shoulders in place.
In the dim emergency red glow of the stairwell lights, Lorenzo Moretti stood inches from her face. His dark suit was immaculate. Not a drop of blood on him. Not a hair out of place. Behind him, two of his massive capos—the thick-necked man from earlier, known only as Dante, and a leaner, scarred operator named Frankie—stood guard with drawn pistols, their breathing steady and controlled.
Evelyn gasped for air, pressing her palms against Lorenzo’s chest to push him back, though it was like pushing against a marble column. “Let me go! I just saved your life!”
“You did,” Lorenzo agreed, his dark eyes searching her face with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. “Which is the only reason you are breathing right now instead of lying face-down in the duck fat. Who told you about the North Exit?”
“Nobody told me!” Evelyn hissed back, adrenaline burning away her fear, leaving behind the raw, defensive fury of a girl who had spent her life protecting herself. “I saw the text on Celeste’s phone when she dropped her bag. I saw her timing the signal. I know what a liar looks like, Mr. Moretti! My father spent twenty years perfecting the face. I can spot a setup from a mile away!”
Dante cocked his weapon slightly, eyeing her with suspicion. “Boss, she could be an advance scout. Planting a fake note to get you to move where they want—”
“If she wanted me dead, Dante, she wouldn’t have told me to avoid the trap,” Lorenzo interrupted, never breaking eye contact with Evelyn. He leaned in closer, his scent a mix of expensive cedarwood, gun oil, and expensive bourbon. “Your father. Is his name Arthur Carter?”
Evelyn froze. The breath locked in her throat. The name felt like a curse word in this concrete tomb. “How do you know that name?”
“Arthur sat across from me at an underground poker game in Calumet City four years ago,” Lorenzo said softly. “He bet a deed to a house he didn’t own and a warehouse full of stolen copper wire. When he lost, he tried to knife my dealer. I gave him twenty-four hours to leave the state or feed the fishes in Lake Michigan. He chose the bus to Milwaukee.”
Evelyn stared at him, the old childhood shame burning hot behind her eyes. “He died two years ago in a flophouse in Gary. Broke. Alone. Just like he deserved.”
“Did he?” Lorenzo’s gaze softened by a microscopic fraction—just enough to let her see the lethal intelligence behind it. “Or did he leave behind a daughter who learned how to read a room better than any FBI profiler in Illinois?”
May you like
Before Evelyn could answer, a burst of automatic gunfire echoed down from the main floor, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots descending the grand staircase.
They were hunting him. And they knew he hadn't taken the north exit.
