Sneaking out of Sebastian’s house isn’t too difficult. It’s easy to hear Greta, because she makes no effort to be quiet while she’s bustling around cleaning, especially when she’s humming to herself.
Right now she’s all the way up on the top floor, probably dusting the music room from the sounds of it. Picturing that bright, sunny space, with its faint remnant of floral perfume, makes me wince. Sebastian took me into his mother’s room, into the most cherished space in this house. He didn’t hold anything back from me. He shared it all, right from the beginning.
I wish I had done the same.
I had intended to walk out the front door, but now I’m reconsidering that plan. I’m dressed in a set of floral pajamas. Granted, the streets of Chicago have seen far stranger things, but I don’t fancy walking around barefoot.
Moving as quietly as possible on the creaking stairs, I make my way up to the second floor where most of the bedrooms are located. I saw from my visit to Sebastian’s room that all the Gallo siblings still retain their childhood bedrooms, in much the same state they used to be when they all lived at home.
I’m looking for the room that belonged to Aida Gallo.
I still haven’t met her in person, since my father didn’t want the Griffins at the wedding. Now I realize that he banned them to keep the numbers in his favor. I suppose he didn’t want to make the same mistake that got Kolya Kristoff killed, attacking both rival families at once. I wonder if he’s deluded enough to believe the Griffins would make an alliance with him after he broke a blood oath with their closest allies, or if he simply thinks it will be easier to fight them one after another.
I’m hoping he’ll never find out. I’m hoping Sebastian will crush him once and for all, before he even has the opportunity to face off against the Griffins.
But I can’t think about that now. I’ve got to finish my escape.
I slip into the bedroom right next to Seb’s, the smallest in the house.
You’d never know that this room belonged to the only Gallo daughter—it doesn’t contain anything overtly feminine. From the scuffs and dents on the walls, and a patched-over hole on the back of the door, it looks more like a Tasmanian devil lived here. One leg is broken off the bed, an upended milk crate shoved in its place to keep the frame upright. The wall to my left is covered with stapled-on album covers, and the one to my right features a stolen street sign from Hugh Hefner Way. Whether this indicates that Aida was a fan, or felt Hefner was undeserving of a sign, I couldn’t guess.
I saw Aida and her husband Callum Griffin the night of the date auction. They shared a table with Seb. I was distracted looking at Sebastian, but even so, Aida had a kind of galvanic energy that pulled the eye in her direction. I can feel it now in this room—like the charge left in the air after a lightning storm.
I thought when she and I met at last, it would be as friends. Maybe even as sisters.
Instead she’ll hate me, like all the Gallos must. She’s an orphan because of me.
I open her closet. Most of her clothes have been cleared out, but a few t-shirts still dangle from crooked hangers, and a pair of filthy old sneakers are jumbled in the corner. Oddly, one sneaker is much dirtier than the other.
I put on an old Van Halen t-shirt, torn on the shoulder, and the battered Converse. They’re too small—Aida isn’t a giant like me. But they’re better than nothing. My pajama pants will have to suffice, because she didn’t leave any shorts.
With that sorted, I poke my head out the door and listen for Greta. She’s still on the top floor, humming “You Can’t Hurry Love” while she cleans. I hurry back down the stairs, trying not to step in the center where they creak the most.
I’m about to head for the front door when I remember that the Gallos have an entire garage full of cars below their house. Sebastian didn’t include that on the tour, but he told me all about his brother Nero’s fascination with all things mechanical. In fact, that’s probably why my cell always smelled slightly of gasoline—it must have been directly underneath the garage.
Heading back down the stairs gives me a shiver of dread. It wasn’t exactly pleasant being locked up down there. Well . . . with a few exceptions.
I take one wrong turn that leads me to some kind of vault, and then I retrace my steps and find the garage.
It’s well-lit and scrupulously clean, with every tool neatly lined up in its proper place. There’s a dozen separate berths, most of them containing a vintage car or motorcycle.
I don’t know how to drive stick, and I have no interest in trying to figure out a Mustang older than I am. So I’m relieved to see that there’s a perfectly normal BMW parked down here, too. I open the door, praying that the keys are in the ignition. I find them waiting for me in the cup holder instead.
I slip into the cushy leather seat, a woody citrus scent filling my nostrils. I freeze with my hands on the wheel, realizing that I’ve climbed into Enzo Gallo’s car. I remember that cologne. It brings back vividly the vision of a distinguished older man in a fine wool suit, with shocking streaks of white in his dark hair. I remember how his smile lifted up the corners of his mustache, while dropping his heavy eyebrows down over his eyes. He smiled when he bought me the grand piano for my new apartment. The apartment I should have been staying in right now, with Sebastian . . .
My hand shakes as I fit the keys into the ignition. I start the engine, the garage door opening automatically to let me ascend up to the street.
I’m not sure where to go.
Adrian could be anywhere right now—the same with Sebastian and my father.
The only thing I can think to do is head toward my father’s house.
I don’t consider it my house anymore. It never felt like home to begin with. When I left, I had no intention of ever returning.
Driving back toward that house is worse than descending the stairs toward the cell.
The peaceful, tree-lined street doesn’t look attractive to my eyes. It fills me with dread, like its manicured perfection is a sign of the corruption hiding at the end behind my father’s high stone walls.
I had planned to pull into one of my neighbor’s driveways so I could hide and wait. Instead, I have to snatch up a pair of sunglasses and shove them on my face, and pull down the sun visor, because I see Rodion’s Escalade driving straight toward me. I can’t stop my car or turn around, it’s too late—he’ll notice if I do anything besides keep driving along at a steady pace.
It’s torture drawing closer and closer. Our vehicles are going to pass with only a couple of feet between us. I can’t decide whether to look over at his car, or keep my eyes straight ahead.
It’s impossible not to look.
To my surprise, I see my brother Adrian driving, and Rodion sitting in the passenger seat. They’re punching something into the GPS, so they don’t glance over as our cars pass.
I pull into the next driveway, my heart hammering wildly against my sternum.
I know where my brother is now—but I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to talk to him with my father’s attack dog riding shotgun.
I take several deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. Then, when I think they’re far enough away that they won’t notice, I reverse out of the driveway and follow after them.
Tailing another car is nerve-wracking. If I get too close, they’re sure to notice. But if I lag behind, I’ll lose them at the next light, or when they turn a corner.
If Rodion were driving, he’d be sure to notice the BMW continually in his rear-view mirror. Luckily, my brother is less experienced, and less observant.
Why Adrian is driving is a question all of its own. Mystified, I can only follow along as they head toward Old Town.
Finally, the Escalade pulls up against the curb. I pull over as well, hiding my car behind a delivery van. I have to clamber across to the passenger seat so I can see what the fuck is happening.
Rodion gets out of the Escalade, a long, black, rectangular bag slung over his shoulder. He starts walking toward the alley between a fish n’ chips shop and an apartment building.
I feel a swift sweep of relief—with Rodion gone, I can drive up next to my brother and get him to pull over. If we can talk alone, I’m sure I can convince him to give up on whatever shambolic plan my father is trying to piece together in the aftermath of the wedding.
I’m sliding back across the seats, ready to start the car engine once more.
Until I glance across the street and I see something that freezes my blood in my veins.
We’re right across the street from Midtown Medical.
Nero Gallo is in that hospital, in a private room on the top floor. He’s laying in a bed recovering from six bullet wounds, basically helpless.
I’m sure that Sebastian has plenty of guards stationed around his brother.
But I’m equally certain that Rodion intends to finish what he started and kill Nero. Why else would he be here?
Adrian’s car is pulling away from the curb. If I’m going to follow my brother, I have to do it now. This is my chance to speak to him.
If I do that . . . I’ll be leaving Nero to Rodion’s mercy. And Rodion doesn’t have any fucking mercy.
Before I’ve even fully decided, I’m shoving open the passenger side door and jumping out of the car. I hurry down the alley, following in the direction that Rodion disappeared.
For a moment I’m confused—I can’t see which way he went. It’s a long alleyway. He shouldn’t have disappeared so quickly. Maybe he started running as soon as he was out of sight?
I’m about to sprint down the alley myself, thinking he already turned the corner, but then I hear a scuffling sound overhead. Looking up, I can just make out the dark, bulky shape of Rodion scaling the fire escape of the apartment building.
Fuck. He’s going up to the roof.
The fire escape is partially retracted. I have to jump as high as I can to grasp the ladder, then pull myself up. If I wasn’t so tall, I wouldn’t be able to reach it at all.
I try to keep my grunts to a minimum so Rodion doesn’t hear me. I wait until he’s all the way up before I start scaling the wobbly, rattling staircase. If he looks down and sees me, I’m fucked.
With each floor I ascend, my hands get more and more sweaty. The building has to be twenty stories high. I don’t like being way up here, not one bit. It was bad enough going up in the Ferris Wheel or the Skybox, but at least those were enclosed spaces. The railing of the fire escape barely comes up to my waist. I’m horribly aware how easy it would be to topple over the spindly metal edge.
I try not to look down as the pavement recedes below me. I try not to feel the breeze up here, or notice how close the clouds look overhead.
I peek up onto the roof, trying to see where Rodion went. After a moment, I spot him all the way over on the far side of the building, setting up some kind of tripod device.
My mouth goes dry as a desert as he pulls a sniper rifle out of his bag. Rodion plans to shoot Nero Gallo through his hospital window.
Wildly, I consider running back down the fire escape so I can find a phone to call someone: the police, or Sebastian. But I already know how useless that would be. Nero will be dead long before anyone can get here.
The only person who can help him is me.
I don’t even want to step up onto the roof. My whole body is screaming at me not to do it.
The roof is flat and open, with only a two-foot raised concrete ledge running around the perimeter. There’s no walls, no railing, nothing to stop me from tripping and falling off the edge. A couple of vent hoods poke up from the building below, but otherwise, there’s nothing up here.
Well . . . almost nothing. The building is old and in poor condition. In a couple of places, the perimeter is crumbling away. In the corner closest to me, I see a loose chunk of concrete about the size of a brick. I creep over to it, trying to move silently, my eyes fixed on Rodion as he sets the sniper rifle into place on its tripod.
I’m also trying not to startle the pigeons strutting around on the roof. Their cooing and fluttering helps disguise the noise of me creeping around. For that I’m grateful. But if I startle them into flight, Rodion is sure to turn around.
Quietly, I wriggle the chunk of concrete free. It’s hefty in my hands, but I wish it were bigger. Rodion is a beast. I’m only going to get one chance to take him down.
He’s laying prone on his belly now, peering through the sight of the rifle. He’s looking across the road, all the way over to the hospital. It’s too far away for me to see, but I can just picture Nero Gallo laying in his bed, pale and motionless. Maybe with Camille right beside him.
She might be holding his hand. Totally unaware that at any moment her lover’s head could disappear in a mist of blood.
I sneak closer and closer to Rodion’s massive frame. It’s the worst possible version of Red Light, Green Light. Any moment my shoe could crunch a pebble or a bit of broken glass, and Rodion could turn.
Luckily he’s immersed in adjusting his barrel, checking the sight again, and curling his finger around the trigger.
I’m so close that I can smell the stale scent of cigarettes on his clothing, and his hateful cologne. I grip the concrete tightly in both hands, raising it up, readying to bring it smashing down on the back of his skull.
At that moment, one of the pigeons takes off from the roof with a percussive explosion of wings. Maybe something scared it. Maybe it just wanted to see me dead.
Rodion’s head whips around. He fixes me with his puffy, bloodshot glare. I try to smash his head regardless, but he rolls away from me, and the concrete only hits him a glancing blow on the shoulder. Not even close to enough to disable him. Meanwhile, I’m off-balance from the force of my swing.
I stumble, trying to snatch up the sniper rifle instead. Thinking maybe I can shoot him at close range. The weapon is heavier than I expected, bulky and awkward. Rodion has jumped to his feet. He easily wrenches it out of my hands, yanking so hard that he almost breaks my fingers.
Instead of turning the gun on me, he tosses it aside. His mouth is slightly open, showing the dark emptiness within. He isn’t making any sound, but from the shape of his lips, it almost looks like he’s laughing.
He circles around me, half-crouched, daring me to make a move.
I know I’m doomed. Rodion is bigger than me, and stronger. He knows how to fight—I don’t. He feints at me. When I stumble backward, trying to get away from him, his mouth opens again and he makes a quiet huffing sound that I’m certain is his version of laughter.
His dark eyes are gleaming, and his round, ugly face is red from the sun and the exertion of climbing up here. He holds up one big, scarred hand, beckoning to me, daring me to attack him.
Instead, I dive for the dropped piece of concrete and snatch it up. I throw it at him as hard as I can, trying to smash his teeth out. He bats it away easily, then charges at me.
I manage to slip his arms by an inch, but he grabs hold of my ponytail and yanks me back. I hit him in the face as hard as I can. It’s like punching a sack of sand. He barely seems to register the blow. Instead, his piggy eyes gleaming, he pulls one fist back and pops me in the shoulder, right where I was shot.
He didn’t even hit me full force, but the pain is explosive, blinding. I crumple to the ground, gasping, my right hand clamped over the spot that has become a flaming ball of agony. I felt the stitches tear, and I’m sure I’m bleeding again.
Rodion seizes me by the throat and hauls me upright again. He’s lifting me off my feet, Aida’s too-small sneakers dangling while I kick helplessly. Rodion starts to carry me toward the ledge.
It’s my worst nightmare: he’s going to fling me off the roof and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. I’ll feel his hands release, I’ll feel myself floating weightless through the air, then rushing with sickening force toward the unforgiving concrete.
Maybe this is why I’ve always been so afraid of heights.
Some part of my brain looked into the future, and saw that this is how I die.
I’m clawing at his arms, kicking and squirming, but his hand is locked around my throat. Already my vision is blurring, my head getting dizzy and light.
I look into his cold, dead eyes and I wonder if there’s anything I could do to make him stop.
I stop scratching his arms. Instead, I bring my right hand up to my face. I raise my first two fingers and touch them to my forehead in a motion almost like a salute.
It’s one of Rodion’s signs—the one he uses to refer to my father.
I’ve never used his signs before. Never even admitted that I knew them.
I can see the surprise in his eyes.
He hesitates, and I do the sign again, as if I have a message for him. A message from my father.
He lowers me down slowly, relaxing his grip on my throat so I can speak.
“My father says . . .” I croak, and then I give a fake little cough, stalling for time.
The moment my feet touch the ground, I lunge forward and reach around his back. My hands close around the handle of the Beretta tucked in the waistband of his pants. I yank it free and throw myself backward, as Rodion’s fist comes swinging around an inch in front of my nose.
I thumb the safety and point the gun right at his chest. I shoot him three times in rapid succession, the bullet holes disappearing in the featureless expanse of his black t-shirt.
Rodion barely jolts. For a moment I think he truly is invincible. I think he’ll keep coming at me like the Terminator.
So I shoot him twice more. This time he staggers back, the back of his knees meeting the concrete barrier. He’s top-heavy, his vast bulk concentrated in his chest and shoulders. He topples backward, tumbling off the roof to the pavement below.
I’m still holding the gun in both hands, pointing it at the place where he was standing a moment before.
I have to force myself to lower it down, my breath ragged and near hysterical.
I do not like being up on this roof. Not one fucking bit.
I have to crawl back over to the fire escape, because I’m too weak to walk.
Climbing down is almost the worst part of all. I’m shaking so hard that the rickety metal structure won’t stop rattling beneath me. I keep thinking that if I look down, I’ll see Rodion waiting below, bloodied and limping, but still somehow alive, like a horror movie monster.
I wasn’t able to force myself to look over the concrete barrier so I could see his broken body in the street. I heard the screech of tires though, and the shouts of the people who saw him land.
I can still hear shouting as I finally drop down from the fire escape. A siren wails, far off and coming closer.
I run back to Enzo’s BMW, my knees shaking beneath me.
I did it. I saved Nero.
But I have no idea where Adrian went.
