Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Valenti
Vittorio Valenti did not take disappointment well. In the basement of an abandoned meatpacking plant in south Chicago, the elderly don sat in a leather armchair while his eldest son, Leo, stood trembling before him.
"You missed," Vittorio said, his voice a dry, papery whisper that was more terrifying than a scream. "A five-year-old girl and an old man eating lunch, and your boys missed."
"It was the waitress, Papa," Leo stammered, sweat dripping from his chin. "She threw herself over the kid. The driver got scared when the glass shattered, and he hit the gas too early."
Vittorio picked up a heavy silver cane and slammed it against Leo’s shins. Leo gasped in pain but didn't dare move.
"I don't care about the waitress," Vittorio hissed. "Marco Leone is hiding her. Why? Because she can identify the driver. She saw the plates. If the feds get her, they get the driver, and if the driver talks, the whole Cicero operation goes down."
"The cops are framing her like we told them to," Leo said, rubbing his leg. "The media thinks she’s one of ours."
"The media is fickle," Vittorio snapped. "Marco will find a way to clear her name. Find out where he’s keeping her. He won't keep her at his main estate; it’s too obvious. Check the hunting lodge in Wisconsin, check the safe houses in Indiana. When you find her, you kill her, you kill the child, and you leave them where the police can find them."
At the Lake Forest estate, Clara’s recovery was progressing rapidly thanks to her own knowledge of wound care. She spent her afternoons in the greenhouse with Mia, teaching the little girl how to press flowers into old books.
"Clara?" Mia asked one afternoon, her small hands covered in potting soil. "Why do the bad men want to hurt us?"
Clara paused, a half-opened orchid in her hand. "Sometimes, Mia, people get so greedy for power that they forget how beautiful the world is. They think that by taking things from others, they can make themselves happy."
"My daddy isn't like that," Mia said proudly. "He protects people."
Clara looked out the glass window of the greenhouse, where Santino and two other guards were patrolling the perimeter. She knew Marco was a criminal—he ran illegal gambling, controlled the docks, and operated outside the law. But she also saw the way he treated his staff, the way he wept when he thought she was sleeping, and the gentle tenderness he showed his daughter. He was a monster to the world, but to this house, he was a shield.
That night, a storm rolled over Lake Michigan, thunder shaking the foundations of the mansion. Clara couldn't sleep; her shoulder was aching from the drop in barometric pressure. She walked down to the kitchen to fetch a glass of warm milk.
She found Marco already there, standing by the dark window, a glass of scotch in his hand. He was wearing black silk trousers and a half-buttoned shirt, his chest showing the jagged scars of past battles.
"The pain keeping you awake?" he asked without turning around.
"A little," Clara said, stepping into the dim light of the refrigerator. "And the noise."
Marco turned, his gray eyes locking onto her. "The storms in Chicago can be violent. But they always clear."
He walked closer to her, the scent of expensive tobacco and expensive liquor surrounding him. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently brushing a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. Clara’s breath caught in her throat. The fear she had felt for him for days was completely gone, replaced by a strange, heavy longing that left her paralyzed.
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"You don't belong in this darkness, Clara," Marco whispered, his thumb trailing down her jawline. "But as long as you are here, I will make sure the dark doesn't touch you."
Before Clara could answer, a red light began to flash on the kitchen wall panel. The silent alarm had been tripped. The Valentis had found them.
