Chapter 7 - The Milanese Ghost
The voice on the other end of the encrypted line belonged to Matteo Rossi. Unlike his brother, Don Rossi—a thuggish brawler who preferred baseball bats and street-corner shakedowns—Matteo was an educated sociopath who held seats on international maritime boards and owned high-end art galleries in Geneva and Milan. He had spent twenty years letting his younger brother take the domestic heat in Illinois while he siphon billions through global container lines.
"You should have stayed in Europe, Matteo," I said evenly, leaning my hip against the mahogany sill. "Your brother is currently eating state-issued meatloaf in Pontiac Correctional. If you touch my docks, you'll be joining him in a wooden box."
Matteo chuckled, a dry, grating sound that rattled through the receiver. "My brother was a crude peasant who lacked vision, Dominic. He thought Chicago was an empire; it is merely a distribution depot. Carmine told me all about your little domestic fantasy. The reformed gangster playing savior to the poor South Side orphans. And that charming little caretaker of yours... Faith, wasn't it?"
My blood ran cold. The skin along my temples tightened with pure adrenaline. "If you mention her name again, I will personally charter a jet to Malpensa and tear your throat out with my bare hands."
"Such vulgarity from a titan of industry," Matteo mocked. "Check your port logs, Mr. Carter. You have forty-eight hours to relinquish the lease on Terminal Four and sign over the customs handling rights to Aegis Harbor. If the documents aren't executed by Thursday midnight, that two-million-dollar wire will become public knowledge. The IRS, the FBI, and the Chicago press will tear that little rehab center to pieces before the breakfast news finishes airing. Miss Willis will spend ten years in a federal cage for money laundering, and you will be powerless to stop it."
The line went dead with a high-pitched dial tone.
I lowered the phone and stood frozen in place. Faith was watching me, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. She didn't ask what Matteo had said; she was smart enough to piece together the venom on my face.
"He wants the docks back, doesn't he?" she asked, her voice tight but composed.
"He wants to use our clean customs lanes to move untracked European narcotics through the Great Lakes basin," I answered, turning to look at her. "And he used your foundation’s registration numbers to do it. The legal paper trail is airtight. If I go to the United States Attorney right now, they’ll freeze your assets within an hour. Every physical therapist, every nurse, and every kid in that clinic will be thrown out onto the sidewalk."
Faith crossed the room, stepping directly into my personal space. The scent of lavender and rain that had comforted me in the darkest hours of my paralysis enveloped me again. She reached out, taking both of my lapels into her hands, forcing me to meet her determined gaze.
"We aren't rolling over, Dominic," she said, her voice filled with an unshakeable stubbornness. "I spent three years fighting slum lords, predatory medical debt, and street gangs just to keep Toby breathing. I didn't save your miserable life in that warehouse just so some Italian snob in an expensive suit could steal my brother's legacy."
A tight, proud grin touched the edge of my lips despite the crushing pressure. "You're getting entirely too comfortable giving orders to the most dangerous man in Chicago."
"You aren't dangerous to me," she countered softly, her thumb brushing against the fabric of my lapel. "Now tell me what we're going to do."
"We go hunting," I said.
I turned to Sal, who had remained standing guard by the locked door. "Sal, get in touch with our old forensic accountant, Marcus Vance. Tell him to pull the server backups from the port terminal before the morning shift arrives. I want every serial code, every cargo weight deviation, and every customs timestamp for the last seventy-two hours."
"Vance is seventy years old and retired in Schaumburg, Boss," Sal pointed out. "He swore he’d never look at a ledger for you again."
"Bring him a cashier's check for a hundred grand and tell him Dominic Carter asked as a friend," I answered. "Then find Carmine. He didn't come back to Chicago to hide in a safe house. He’s vain, arrogant, and addicted to the spotlight. Where would he go first?"
Sal rubbed his chin, his dark eyes squinting in recollection. "The Velvet Lounge on Rush Street. His old mistress still manages the VIP floor. He never could stay away from that place when he had money in his pocket."
"Then that’s where we start," I said, buttoning my coat.
"I'm coming with you," Faith said immediately, grabbing her leather coat off the rack.
"Absolutely not," I snapped, turning sharply. "Rush Street is full of Rossi’s remaining street soldiers. It’s an open combat zone."
"They know your face, Dominic," Faith countered, stepping directly into my path, her chin tilted up defiantly. "You walk into the Velvet Lounge, every bouncer pulls an alarm before you clear the foyer. But they don't know me. Carmine knows me as your nurse, not an investigator. I can get onto that VIP floor before they even realize you're parked on the curb."
May you like
I looked down at her, the memory of her small frame throwing itself over my paralyzed body to absorb shotgun glass burning fresh in my mind. She wasn't a porcelain doll to be locked away in an ivory tower. She was the iron spine that held my entire world upright.
"One hour," I muttered, shaking my head in reluctant submission. "And if you leave my sight for even thirty seconds, I’m burning that club to the ground."
