Chapter 8 - The Man Who Came Back for RevengeArthur Bianke disappeared for eleven days.
Chicago became tense.
Dom doubled security.
Nema hated it.
But she accepted it.
There was a difference between protection and imprisonment.
She understood that now.
On the twelfth day, Bianke sent a message.
Not to Dom.
To Nema.
A small package arrived at Frank’s.
Inside was her mother’s hospital bracelet.
Nema stared at it for a long time.
Dom stood beside her.
“He wants you emotional.”
“I am emotional.”
“Good.”
She looked at him.
“Good?”
“Fear becomes dangerous when people pretend they don’t feel it.”
Nema closed her hand around the bracelet.
“What would you do?”
“Kill him.”
“That solution comes very naturally to you.”
“Yes.”
Nema almost smiled.
Then she looked at the package.
“There’s something else.”
A handwritten address was printed beneath the cardboard flap.
An abandoned church on the South Side.
Midnight.
COME ALONE.
Nema showed Dom.
“No.”
She sighed.
“We need to work on your vocabulary.”
“You are not going.”
“He expects me.”
“Exactly.”
Nema walked toward the office.
Dom followed.
“He wants the original ledger.”
“We don’t have it.”
“The federal government does.”
“We have photographs.”
Nema stopped.
“Bianke doesn’t know that.”
Dom understood.
“You want to bluff.”
“I want him talking.”
“Nema.”
“He escaped federal custody.”
“Yes.”
“That means someone powerful helped him.”
Dom went silent.
“If we kill Bianke,” Nema continued, “we never learn who.”
Dom hated the logic.
Which meant he knew she was right.
At 11:58 p.m., Nema entered the abandoned church.
Rain hammered the roof.
Candles burned near the altar.
Arthur Bianke stood beneath a broken crucifix.
He looked older.
Tired.
Desperate.
“You came.”
“You knew I would.”
“Where’s Dom?”
“Somewhere nearby.”
Bianke smiled.
“Of course.”
Nema held a flash drive.
“The ledger.”
His eyes fixed on it.
“Names?”
“Everything.”
“What do you want?”
“The person who helped you escape.”
Bianke laughed.
“You think you’re negotiating?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a waitress.”
“I own the diner now.”
That made him laugh harder.
Nema waited.
Eventually the laughter stopped.
“You really are Elena’s daughter.”
“Name.”
Bianke stepped closer.
“Daniel Mercer.”
Nema knew the name.
Deputy mayor.
Former federal prosecutor.
One of the most respected men in Chicago.
His name had not appeared in the ledger.
“Why isn’t he listed?”
“Because Mercer wasn’t working for us eleven years ago.”
“When did he start?”
“After.”
“What does he want?”
“Dom’s empire.”
Nema stared.
Bianke smiled.
“You thought this was old men fighting over territory?”
He shook his head.
“Mercer wants redevelopment contracts. Ports. Construction. Political power.”
“And you?”
“I was useful.”
“Until you weren’t.”
Bianke’s smile disappeared.
Nema understood.
Mercer had helped Bianke escape not to save him.
To use him.
Possibly to eliminate Dom.
Then Bianke would become disposable.
“You’re already dead,” Nema said.
Bianke stared.
“You just don’t know when Mercer plans to do it.”
A sound came from the balcony.
Bianke turned.
Gunfire erupted.
Nema dropped.
A bullet struck Bianke.
He fell behind a pew.
More shots.
Someone was firing from above.
Not Dom.
Not Leo.
Mercer was cleaning up.
Nema crawled toward Bianke.
“Can you move?”
He pressed a hand against his shoulder.
“You’re helping me?”
“I need you alive.”
“How touching.”
Dom entered through the side door.
He fired toward the balcony.
Leo followed.
The shooter fled.
Dom reached Nema.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
He checked anyway.
Hands.
Shoulders.
Face.
“Nema.”
“I’m fine.”
He pulled her against him.
For several seconds, neither cared that Bianke was watching.
Then Leo approached.
“Shooter’s gone.”
Bianke laughed weakly.
“Mercer.”
Dom looked at him.
“What?”
“Daniel Mercer.”
Bianke coughed.
“He’s your real enemy.”
Dom looked at Nema.
She nodded.
“It’s true.”
Bianke survived.
And for the first time, Dom Vasquez and Arthur Bianke found themselves temporarily on the same side.
Neither enjoyed it.
Mercer had resources neither criminal organization possessed.
Government access.
Police intelligence.
Federal contacts.
Political protection.
He knew where raids would happen before warrants were signed.
He knew which witnesses were protected.
He knew which judges could be pressured.
Worst of all, he knew Dom was trying to move his businesses into legitimate territory.
That made Dom vulnerable.
Banks.
Licenses.
Contracts.
Regulators.
Mercer could destroy everything without firing a bullet.
“This isn’t my kind of war,” Dom admitted.
They sat in Nema’s apartment at three in the morning.
Bianke was hidden under guard.
Leo stood near the window.
Nema poured coffee.
“No,” she said.
Dom looked at her.
“It’s mine.”
He understood.
Paperwork.
Records.
Evidence.
People underestimated waitresses because they thought service meant submission.
Nema had spent years listening while customers talked as though she were invisible.
She knew how powerful invisibility could be.
“We don’t attack Mercer,” she said.
“We let him believe he won.”
Dom leaned back.
“And then?”
“We make him talk.”
“How?”
May you like
Nema smiled.
“We give him exactly what he wants.”
