Chapter 1
Blood looked different on imported Italian marble.
It did not pool neatly. It streaked across the polished surface, ruining the pristine finish.
Lorenzo Costa despised disorder inside his restaurant.
But when the heavy impact cut through the low jazz and he saw a bruised, bleeding woman shoved onto the floor by a man who did not yet understand how little time he had left, Lorenzo stopped caring about the marble.
What held his attention was the quiet defiance still burning inside her damaged eyes.
“Bring her to me.”
Lorenzo stood on the mezzanine of Le Clovis with both hands resting lightly on the brass railing.
The restaurant was his pride.
White truffle oil.
Dim amber light.
Imported crystal.
It was also the only place in the city where he did not constantly feel the phantom weight of a loaded pistol against his ribs.
Below him, the Friday-night dinner rush moved beneath the restrained murmur of wealthy patrons and corporate executives performing refinement.
Lorenzo drank his espresso slowly.
Bitter.
Thick.
Black.
Exactly as it should be.
His underboss, Vincent, stood 2 steps behind him in the shadows.
Vincent was built like a cinder block and had approximately the same social grace, but when necessary he could move through a room like a ghost.
They watched the floor together every night.
Lorenzo searched for imperfections.
A waiter angling a wine bottle incorrectly.
A flickering light.
A smear on a plate.
Then the rhythm changed.
The disruption was not especially loud.
People who could afford Le Clovis rarely shouted.
But violence had its own frequency.
Lorenzo felt it before he fully saw it.
His attention shifted toward a booth near the heavy velvet curtains beside the coat check.
A man stood over the table.
Mid-30s.
Cheap suit attempting to imitate expensive tailoring.
His face was flushed with the kind of anger that existed only because someone weaker was present to receive it.
Across from him sat a woman.
Her head was lowered.
Dark, disordered hair hid her face.
Lorenzo watched the man’s hand.
The wrist snapped forward.
Heavy knuckles struck a cheekbone.
The sound was sharp.
The woman fell sideways.
Her elbow hit the mahogany table.
A half-full glass of vintage Barolo overturned.
Red wine spread across the white tablecloth and ran toward the floor.
The woman struck the marble.
Silence spread outward from the booth.
Forks stopped halfway to mouths.
Waiters froze.
The jazz continued, suddenly sounding almost grotesque against the stillness.
Lorenzo placed his espresso cup on the brass rail.
The faint clink was the loudest sound on the mezzanine.
He did not know the man’s name yet.
He would never consider it important enough to remember.
Below, the man bent down and seized the woman by her hair.
He dragged her halfway upright.
“Get up.”
His voice carried easily through the carefully engineered acoustics.
“Stop embarrassing me, you stupid bitch.”
The woman did not scream.
She did not strike at him.
She did not beg.
As her head was forced backward, Lorenzo saw her face clearly for the 1st time.
Her lower lip was split.
Fresh blood ran down her pale chin.
Her left eye was already swelling, the skin turning purple.
Her right eye remained open.
That eye stopped Lorenzo.
There was no frantic panic in it.
No pleading.
It was the hollow stare of someone who had survived this before.
Someone already calculating what the next 5 minutes would cost.
Lorenzo recognized the expression immediately.
He saw a version of it in his own mirror every morning.
“Boss.”
Vincent’s voice came quietly from behind him.
The man below raised his free hand again.
His fist tightened.
“Take him to the alley.”
Lorenzo’s voice remained flat.
“Break the hand he just used.”
A pause.
“Then break the other one.”
Vincent waited.
“If he makes noise, remove his tongue.”
Vincent gave 1 short nod.
“And the girl?”
Lorenzo looked down again.
The man had released her hair.
She had dropped back to the floor.
Her bruised hands pressed against the wet marble as she tried to push herself upright.
Her fingers slipped in the wine.
She did not cry.
She reset her hands and tried again.
Lorenzo looked at the surrounding tables.
The wealthy patrons watched.
Some were horrified.
Some uncomfortable.
Others looked away.
Nobody moved.
“Bring her to me.”
Lorenzo turned from the railing and walked toward the heavy oak door of his private office.
He did not need to watch Vincent work.
He already understood what would happen.
On the dining floor, Vincent and 2 men moved through the tables without rushing.
One stepped between the woman and her attacker.
Vincent placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.
The man spun around, ready to object.
The words disappeared when he saw the faces surrounding him.
A heavy coat was draped over his arm.
Beneath it, a gun barrel pressed into his ribs.
The man turned pale.
He was escorted toward the rear exit.
He did not resist.
Vincent returned to the woman.
He did not offer reassurance.
He simply extended a scarred hand.
She stared at it for several seconds.
Then, with a wince she failed to hide, she accepted it.
Lorenzo’s office smelled of leather, cedar, and Scotch.
The walls were soundproofed.
Once the door closed, the jazz and restaurant noise vanished completely.
Only the brass grandfather clock in the corner remained audible.
Lorenzo was pouring 2 fingers of Macallan into a crystal tumbler when the door opened.
Vincent entered first.
The woman stood behind him.
She remained on her feet without assistance, although her left arm stayed pressed tightly against her ribs.
“Leave us, Vince.”
Lorenzo did not look away from the glass.
Vincent withdrew.
The door shut.
The lock engaged.
The woman flinched.
Lorenzo turned.
At close range, the injuries were worse than he had seen from above.
Older bruises marked her neck.
Yellow and green shadows disappeared beneath the collar of a worn trench coat.
She was trembling and trying hard to conceal it.
Her jaw was clenched tightly enough for the muscle to move visibly.
Her eyes traveled around the room.
Mahogany desk.
First-edition books.
A man in a $5,000 suit standing in front of her.
She did not look relieved.
She looked as though she understood exactly what kind of exchange had just occurred.
One dangerous man had been removed.
Another was now standing in front of her.
Lorenzo gestured toward the leather Chesterfield sofa.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.”
Her voice was raw.
“You have a concussion.”
Lorenzo’s tone remained even.
“And you’re bleeding onto a Persian rug worth more than the car you arrived in.”
He looked toward the sofa.
“Sit before your knees make the decision for you.”
She hesitated.
Then her legs trembled slightly.
She moved to the sofa and sat rigidly on its edge.
Lorenzo went to the wet bar.
He did not offer comfort.
He ran cold water over a clean white towel, wrung it out, and carried it back.
He held it toward her.
She looked at the cloth.
Then at him.
“What do you want?”
“At this moment?”
Lorenzo held the towel steady.
“I want you to stop bleeding in my office.”
“I didn’t ask to come up here.”
“And I didn’t ask for domestic violence to destroy the atmosphere downstairs.”
His tone remained calm.
“Take the towel.”
She took it sharply from his hand.
Then pressed it against her split lip.
Pain escaped in a brief hiss before she forced herself quiet again.
Lorenzo returned to his desk.
He drank.
Then leaned against the wood and waited for the adrenaline to drain from her system.
“What happened to Greg?”
She finally spoke.
The towel muffled her voice.
“He was escorted outside.”
“Is he waiting for me?”
“Greg is learning a profession that does not require functioning hands.”
Lorenzo swirled the Scotch once.
“You will not see him tonight.”
His eyes settled on her.
“If you possess any instinct for self-preservation, you will never see him again.”
The woman lowered the towel.
She did not gasp.
She did not defend Greg.
She simply exhaled.
Long.
Exhausted.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
Lorenzo raised an eyebrow.
“I can handle whatever retaliation a man in a polyester suit believes he can organize.”
“It isn’t him.”
Her eyes closed briefly.
“He owes money.”
Lorenzo stopped moving.
“A lot.”
Her voice remained tired.
“To people who don’t care about your restaurant or your suits.”
She opened her eye again.
“They were coming for him tonight.”
“He was drinking because he was panicking.”
A pause.
“When he panics, he hits.”
Lorenzo placed his glass down.
“Who does he owe?”
“Does it matter?”
She looked directly at him.
“I just lost the only person standing between them and me.”
Her voice had become almost empty.
“When they can’t find Greg, they’ll come for me.”
“They know where we live.”
“I’m Lorenzo Costa.”
He said the name without emphasis.
“In this city, the answer matters.”
He looked at her.
“Give me the name.”
For the 1st time, she studied him carefully.
The suit.
The missing tie.
The subtle shape of a shoulder holster beneath the jacket.
Then his hands.
Scarred knuckles.
Pale lines across the skin.
“The Bertinelli brothers.”
She spoke flatly.
“He owes them $60,000.”
Lorenzo felt a familiar cold tension settle inside him.
The Bertinellis operated a mid-level loan-sharking operation on the South Side.
They were insignificant compared with Lorenzo’s organization.
They were not insignificant to civilians.
They broke bones.
They trafficked women when debts could not be recovered another way.
Lorenzo looked at the battered woman on his sofa.
She had no money.
No protection.
No safe home.
And Greg had effectively painted a target on her.
Lorenzo returned to the wet bar.
This time he poured another glass.
He brought it to her.
“Drink.”
She looked at the Scotch.
“It will help with the shock.”
She took it.
Her bruised hand trembled.
“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
The words were not a request.
Only a fact.
“I know.”
Lorenzo looked down at her.
May you like
“You can’t return to the apartment.”
He continued.
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