Chapter 8 - The Rush Street Infiltration
The neon glow of Rush Street reflected across the rain-slicked asphalt of Chicago’s nightlife district like pooled oil. Black luxury sedans lined the curb outside the Velvet Lounge, an upscale supper club that had served as an open-air laundromat for syndicate money for over three decades.
I sat in the back of an unmarked black Lincoln Continental parked fifty yards down the block, watching the club's velvet ropes through the tinted glass. Sal sat behind the steering wheel, an earbud wedged into his ear, monitoring the private radio frequency connected to the micro-transmitter pinned under Faith’s jacket.
"She’s through the front entrance," Sal muttered, adjusting his glasses. "Bouncer checked her purse and let her pass without a wanding."
I gripped the leather handle of my cane with enough force to turn my knuckles bone-white. Every protective instinct I had honed over twenty years of underworld dominance screamed at me to kick open the car door, march through that velvet rope, and pull Faith out by her wrist. Leaving her inside that viper's pit felt like swallowing razor blades.
"Faith, can you hear me?" I spoke into the hidden microphone nestled in my collar.
A faint click sounded through the receiver, followed by Faith’s calm, steady voice. "Loud and clear. The main floor is packed with finance types and high-rollers. Music is loud enough to mask the audio. I’m heading toward the private staircase leading to the mezzanine."
"Keep your eyes moving," I warned. "Carmine always keeps two armed cutthroats near the velvet curtains. If you see a guy with a spider tattoo on his neck, turn around immediately. That’s Enzo, his primary shooter."
"Understood. Climbing the stairs now."
Through the club’s second-story smoked glass windows, I could barely make out the shifting silhouettes of the VIP booths. Faith moved through the crowd with remarkable poise. She had stripped off her corporate blazer, wearing an elegant emerald silk blouse that disguised the micro-audio wire taped against her ribs. She looked like an affluent young socialite out for an evening cocktail—except for the sharp, observant intensity in her gray eyes.
Suddenly, Faith’s breathing pattern hitchhiked through the radio feed.
"I see him," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the thumping bass of the lounge music. "Booth four. Back corner. He's wearing a cream-colored Italian suit, drinking vintage champagne. There's a man sitting across from him in an expensive charcoal overcoat with a European accent."
"That’s Matteo Rossi," I hissed through the comms. "Sal, prime the car."
"Wait," Faith whispered urgently. "They’re opening a briefcase on the table. Matteo is handing Carmine a set of magnetic access keycards. Hold on... let me get closer to the floral display beside their partition."
"Faith, don't push your luck!" I ordered, my voice trembling with sheer panic. "Get the audio and back away!"
"Carmine is talking about the midnight rail terminal," she reported, her voice hushed. "Matteo says the shipment isn't narcotics. Dominic, did you hear that? It’s not drugs. It’s an unregistered shipment of industrial munitions and automatic receivers stolen from a defense contractor outside Detroit. They’re using the Carter logo to ship military hardware through Lake Michigan to an international cartel broker."
My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. If federal authorities caught stolen Department of Defense weaponry inside my warehouses, there would be no civil litigation, no bail hearings, and no appeals. It would trigger an immediate military counter-terrorism raid. They didn't just want to ruin Faith’s clinic; they wanted to erase me from existence in a hail of government gunfire.
Suddenly, a sharp, clattering noise erupted through the receiver, followed by the sound of a woman gasping.
"Well, well, well," a familiar, greasy voice drawled through the speaker, dripping with vicious amusement. "Look what crawled out of the hospital ward and stumbled into the champagne room."
"Carmine," I whispered, the world around me slowing to a dead crawl.
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"Mr. Carter's little physical therapist," Carmine’s voice came through crystal clear, followed by the distinct sound of a firearm slide clicking into battery. "I told Matteo you were pretty, but I didn't think you were stupid enough to follow me here alone. Where is your crippled boyfriend, sweetheart? Is he still struggling to tie his own shoes?"
"Sal, move the car!" I roared, kicking the passenger door open into the pouring rain. "Move it now!"
