I’m limp with relief after finally hearing from Simone.
I was going insane with her locked up in that house. I had half a mind to take Nero, Seb, and six of our men, and storm the castle. The only reason I didn’t is because I couldn’t risk anyone getting hurt. It is Simone’s family keeping her hostage, after all.
Still, I hardly feel any better after reading her messages. She sounds awful—keyed up about something.
I want to see her now. I don’t want to wait until midnight.
The relief is already leeching away, replaced with dread.
She said she has to talk to me.
Is she going to tell me she can’t see me anymore?
Her father’s had an entire week to work on her. To guilt and shame her, and prey on her fears. I’m sure he’s found out everything he can about me. I’m sure he’s told her all my darkest secrets, and worse. He might have told her anything, true or untrue.
No, that can’t be it.
If she didn’t want to see me anymore, she’d just tell me. Her father would let her call if that were the reason. He’d stand right next to her while she did it.
No, she wants to sneak out to see me. That means she loves me still. She wants us to be together.
I tell myself that over and over, so darker thoughts don’t creep in.
Simone and I are meant to be together. I know it.
It wasn’t an accident that I met her that day.
It was fate that threw me out that window. Fate that pulled me into that car. Fate that I drove away with her in the backseat. And fate the moment our eyes met in the mirror.
I’m not a romantic, I never have been. But I have instinct. I know when something’s right.
Simone is mine. All the years before we knew each other, we were two asteroids in space, on two separate paths with a single trajectory. We were always destined to collide.
I check my watch again and again. It’s nine o’clock. Then ten. Then almost eleven. I grab my jacket and my car keys—I can’t risk being late.
My Bronco is parked below street level, in our underground garage.
When I head down there, I hear Nero blasting rap music and the clink of his tools. He’s always working on one or another of our vehicles. We have the ones we use for work, then his own personal projects, the vintage motorcycles and cars that he painstakingly restores from rusted hulks to shining works of art. It’s the only time I see him focused and patient. I wish he could apply that consistency to anything else in his life.
“I need the Bronco,” I tell him over the din of the music.
“It’s up on the lift,” Nero says without looking up. “I’m putting on new tires.”
“How long will that take?”
“I dunno. An hour.”
“What about the Beamer?”
“Papa’s got that one.” He sits up, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. It leaves a long streak of grease across his skin. “You can take my Camaro. It’s low on gas, though.”
“Don’t we have any?”
We usually keep a couple canisters on hand.
“No,” Nero says.
“Why not?”
He shrugs. “Haven’t refilled lately.”
I swallow my irritation. I’ve got plenty of time to stop at a gas station. And it’s my fault I didn’t check the cars earlier.
I climb into the red Camaro, not bothering to say goodbye to Nero because he’s already back tinkering around under the Mustang.
As I pull up to street level, I think I see the flare of headlights behind me, but they disappear a moment later. Probably a car turning the corner.
I drive over to the gas station on Wells Street.
When I get there, the pumps are dark. It closed at 10:30.
“Fuck!” I shout.
I’m anxious, keyed up. I wanted to get to the park early. I don’t like the idea of Simone being there alone in the dark, waiting for me.
I drive over to Orleans instead, looking for another gas station. The dial is so low that it’s not even on empty—it’s a few millimeters below. Definitely not enough to get to Lincoln Park without filling up.
The streets are dark and mostly empty. Not many other cars around.
Which is why I notice the black SUV following along after me. I take a left on Superior, and the SUV does, too. I can’t see who’s driving, except that there’s definitely two figures in the front seats. Two large figures.
To test my theory, I turn right on Franklin, then slow down.
Sure enough, the SUV turns as well. When they see me creeping along, they take a quick detour on Chicago Ave. I floor the gas, speeding up the road. I want to lose the other car while we’re out of sight of each other. I roar down Chestnut, then back along Orleans, keeping an eye on my rear-view mirror the whole time to see if I’ve lost them.
The gas gauge is as empty as it goes now. I’m running on fumes. Speeding around isn’t helping—I’ve got to find a place to fill up right now, whether I’ve lost the other car or not.
I pull into the gas station, climbing out warily and glancing around on all sides as I swipe my credit card, and open the tank.
I fit the nozzle into the side of the Camaro, still sweeping the dark, empty lot with my eyes, jumpy as a cat.
The tank seems to take ages to fill. I can hear the cold gasoline pouring out, fast but not fast enough. I feel tense and nervy. When I think there’s probably enough gas in the tank, I stop the flow and pull the nozzle free.
Too late.
The black SUV screeches into the lot, pulling right in front of my car so I’ll have to reverse to get out. I’m about to drop the nozzle, but before I can move, before the SUV has even stopped all the way, four Russians fling the doors open and jump out. The two in the front I don’t recognize. Siberia and his friend from the poker game come out the back. They surround me, closing in like a noose.
Gripping the gas nozzle in my right hand, I slip my left into my jeans pocket, feeling for metal.
“Dante Gallo,” Siberia says. He’s wearing a canvas jacket with the collar turned up. The thin material strains across the bulk of his chest and shoulders.
He’s the biggest of the Russians, but the other three aren’t exactly small. One is dark-complected—probably Armenian. One has tattoos down the sides of his face along the hairline. And one is wearing brass knuckles on both fists. They glint dully in the dim light. When he smiles, he’s got a gold tooth in the front, almost exactly the same shade.
“I was hoping it was Nero,” Siberia says, nodding toward my car.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t,” I growl. “You so much as look at my brother, and I’ll rip your spine out like a fucking ragweed.”
“Oh, you think so?” Siberia says softly. “I’m not so sure. You think you’re some kind of big man? We have a lot of big men in Russia. Brutal, too. I met a lot of big men in prison. You know my nickname is not from poker. It comes from the Gulag where I served eight years. Sometimes the guards staged matches between the biggest men. Boxing matches, bare-knuckle. The prize was food. I ate very well off the broken bones of those big men.”
“Why don’t you show me?” I say. “Tell your friends to back the fuck off and face me yourself.”
Even while I’m speaking, the two on my left are drawing closer. I’m looking at Siberia, but I’m watching them in my peripheral.
“You want a fair fight?” Siberia says. “Fair like your brother’s hand?”
Before he’s even finished his taunt, the two on the left are rushing at me.
It’s what I expected.
I depress the handle of the nozzle and fling gasoline right in their faces. At the same time, I’m already flicking open the lid of my zippo and lighting the flame. I throw the zippo at Brass Knuckles, hitting him square in the chest. He ignites like a torch. Within half a second, Tattoos is likewise aflame.
They scream in shock and pain, flailing around, forgetting to drop and roll. You don’t often hear a man scream. It’s worse than a woman.
The Armenian and Siberia don’t help their friends. They rush at me instead.
Some of the liquid flame has splashed onto the arm of my jacket. I can’t even feel the heat. My whole body is burning with adrenaline. I ball up my fists and swing my arms upward at the Armenian’s jaw. The force of the blow knocks him sideways into Siberia.
It doesn’t slow him down any. He shoves his friend aside and comes at me, fists raised in front of his face like a proper pugilist. He throws tight punches right at my face. I block my jaw, and he attacks my body instead, hitting me in the gut and ribs with full force.
Each blow is like a hammer. His fists are massive and rock-hard. They slam into me, rapid-fire. Keeping my hands up, I crack him across the jaw with an elbow, followed by a left cross. It barely phases him.
Meanwhile, the Armenian dives at my legs. He takes me down. We roll over on the concrete. I hear the unmistakable sound of a switchblade opening. With no time to look up, I grab the Armenian by the front of his shirt and lift him up, throwing him in the direction of Siberia. Siberia’s blade sinks into his friend’s arm, but he jerks it free again and runs at me, swinging the knife at my face.
I put my arm up. The blade cuts through my leather jacket like linen. It bites through the flesh of my forearm, leaving a long gash down to the bone. I feel the blood flowing down, dripping off my fingers.
Meanwhile, Brass Knuckles and Tattoo are screaming and rolling around, trying to extinguish the flames. But all they’re doing is rolling over into the pooled gasoline, splashing it around and spreading the fire.
The Armenian has doubled over. I knee him in the face and smash my fists down on the back of his skull. Siberia swings his blade at my face again and I jerk back, the tip of the knife cutting down my right cheek. I dive at Siberia, grabbing his knife hand by the wrist. My hand is slippery with blood and it’s hard to hold on. I hit him again and again with my left fist, and he does the same, while straining to force the blade forward into my chest.
I hear a whooshing sound behind me. It sounds like a high wind rushing down a very small tube. I’m afraid I know what that means.
Releasing Siberia’s hand, I let him stab the switchblade into my right shoulder. Meanwhile, I hit him hard in the throat with the heel of my hand. He stumbles backward, choking.
With the blade still embedded in my shoulder, I crouch down low and run as fast as I can away from the gas pumps. I’ve only taken a dozen steps before the pump explodes. The heat hits me first, like a wall of liquid heat, shoving me from behind. The sound comes a split-second later—loud, booming, and metallic. I hear it as I fly through the air, crashing down hard on the concrete. My head slams against the curb.
I’m dazed and deafened.
It takes me a minute to even raise my head. I look back at the brilliant remains of the fireball, and the flaming hulk of metal that used to be Nero’s car. The Russian’s SUV is likewise on fire, as are two of the bodies next to the pump. The other two figures were thrown farther out, including Siberia, who’s still alive. I can hear him groaning.
I pull myself up onto the curb. I grab the handle of the knife jutting out of my deltoid, and I yank the blade out. It hurts worse coming out than it did going in.
My hand looks like a bloody glove. The whole arm is stiff and useless.
I can feel blood leaking from my nose and ears. Several of my ribs feel cracked, if not broken. I don’t know if that’s from Siberia, the explosion, or landing on the cement.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. The screen is shattered. My watch is broken too. I have no idea what time it is—all I know is that I’m late. My car is out of commission, and I hear the distant wail of sirens headed for me.
I haul myself up to my knees, and then I stand, hunched over.
I’ve got to get to Simone.
I can’t hail a cab—nobody’s going to pick me up in this state. I could steal a car, but that would only draw more attention.
There’s only one thing left to do. I’ve got to run.
I start limping in the direction of Lincoln Park. After a few yards, I break into a shuffling kind of jog. My head is throbbing with every step. My ribs are agony, stabbing me with each breath.
But I have to get to Simone.
I can’t stop even for a second.
