32. Davide

The Navy Pier on a beautiful day is packed ass to tits with tourists and sightseers. A busker plays guitar on the far corner while a small mob gathers around him, a few German-looking travelers swaying and singing along to a Bob Marley tune. I stand at the very far end, at the furthest tip against the railing, and stare out at the water.

"He's late," I say when Simon leans up next to me. My father's pacing around nearby talking quietly into his phone as he coordinates the guard team. We have men spread out all around this entire complex, but the Pier's an enormous indoor and outdoor spectacle with little kiosk shops, a children's museum, and tons of bars and restaurants. It's impossible to watch everything.

"He'll be here." Simon gives me his patently lopsided grin. My eldest brother was raised to run the Famiglia one day, and he went wild in his twenties when the crushing weight of all that responsibility nearly overwhelmed him. Now he's much more serious and sober, but I still remember the fights he'd get in with my father. I was pretty sure they were going to kill each other.

"I don't even like the fucking ocean," I mutter as a gull cries nearby and rises to steal a hotdog from a little kid's hands. "Fucking sky rats."

"It's not the ocean," Simon points out. "It's a goddamn lake."

"Same thing." I take a deep breath and blow it out. "Alright, I know it's not, but it's a huge body of water. And I'm feeling introspective, so fuck off."

Simon grunts and his smile fades away. He knows what this meeting means to me. I haven't seen Santoro in a very long time, not since the incident all those years ago, and it's not a small thing trying to face him down now. I'm doing my best to keep all these emotions deep inside but it isn't easy.

"You remember going out on the water with Dad when we were younger?" Simon turns and leans on his elbows. "Do you remember why it stopped?"

I snort and nod, squinting at the sunlight playing on the waves. "Angelo jumped off the boat because he thought he saw a dolphin."

"Dad flipped the hell out and shouted at him for like ten minutes."

"Not that Angelo cared." I smile at the memory of my crazy brother. We all missed him like hell—he's been in prison for three years and he's got another two before he's eligible for parole.

"Everyone always thought Angelo was the brave one," Simon said, looking at me. "But I knew that was bullshit. If Angelo went through what you went through, he would've been a fucking catatonic wreck. He'd be rocking back and forth hugging himself and mumbling gibberish in some asylum somewhere."

I give my older brother a dubious look. "I'm not sure how to take that, honestly."

He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm just saying, you don't have shit to prove to anyone, alright? You don't have to stay here and face down Santoro if you don't want to. Nobody would look down on you."

I give him a look then punch him hard in the arm. He grunts and rubs himself, glaring.

"I'm not here for anyone but my fucking self," I say then glance in Dad's direction. "And for him a little bit. But you're right, I don't have shit to prove to anyone."

Except I have been proving myself for a long time. I'll never admit it, but after what happened with Santoro, I came back and I was deeply changed. I was afraid of everything, terrified of the dark, couldn't even be around fire, and hated the idea of being in an enclosed space. I used to sleep in the back yard just so I wouldn't feel claustrophobic.

But then I started noticing the way people looked at me and all the damn whispers. Crazy, they said, I lost my fucking mind because of what I went through. People called me a weirdo, bizarre, strange, fucked up. They were absolutely right. I was fucked up. I still am. But I decided back when I was young to double down on what I thought would make me strong, and I threw myself into the Famiglia.

That's why I took every dangerous job nobody else wanted. I became a killer for my father, not because I wanted to, but because I thought it was the only way I could fight back from whatever dark hell I'd been locked inside. I forced myself to be twice as tough and worked ten times harder than anyone else, and even if that killed me, I didn't care.

I clawed my way back into the world, and in the process, I became this.

"Boys," Dad said and by the tone of his voice, I knew Santoro was here.

I didn't see him at first as I stood by my father. Simon took the other side. I scanned the crowd, trying to spot the man I remembered, the man that still haunted my dreams. Nightmares inevitably turn back to that night: the smell of smoke and ash, the heat of the bars as they burned my hand, Santoro's face looking at me in the darkness, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

It took a moment to recognize him. It'd been a long time since I last saw him, and in my memory he was enormous, but that was the recollection of a little boy. The man in front of me was old, in his sixties, with thin gray hair and sharp eyes. He was thin, no longer as muscled as he used to be, and wore an impeccable gray suit. He moved with a slight limp, and the glasses he wore were the tinted kind that changed from indoors to out. He seemed smaller, hollower, someone only a simulacrum of the man I used to know, and I couldn't understand how this person had broken me so deeply, when he was almost nothing himself.

Santoro stood before us, entirely alone.

"Alessandro," he said, greeting my father.

"Luciano." Dad grunted the name. "I want to make this fast."

"Why, old friend?" Santoro's smile was sneering and entirely too confident. My eyes strayed from the old man and began to scrutinize every person nearby, but there were too many. Kids weaved through the crowd, running from their parents. Others shouted and laughed nearby.

"I wanted you gone from my city." Dad's voice is pure venom. "I should have killed you when I had the chance. You deserved death and so much worse for what you did to my family. And now you're stealing from me."

Santoro shook his head. "I'm stealing guns you plan on using to kill me. Come now, Alessandro, don't act like you're the aggrieved party here. What happened between us was purely business. Your boys were never meant to be a part of that."

"And yet they were." Dad stepped forward, trembling, and I'm amazed at how angry he seems. I thought I'd be the one losing my mind, except I feel calm.

Santoro's just a man. He's been a fifty-foot giant in my dreams for so long, but now that I'm seeing him in person, it feels as though the fear's blown away like mist. He doesn't have power over me—and he hasn't for a long time. I could break him if I wanted to.

"I'm sorry, Alessandro. I didn't come here to litigate the past with you. I'm here because your family's time as de facto rulers of Chicago is coming to an end, only you don't realize that yet. You got too big, old friend, and you got much too complacent."

"Threats?" Dad laughs as he shakes his head. "You were always so ambitious, but look at you now? Running a small, meaningless family, and nibbling at our feet like a bottom-feeding fish. I'll make this conversation easy on you then. Give us our guns back, or I will make sure my men hunt you down and ruin every single member of your organization."

Santoro sighs and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I really am." He takes a few steps back. "But you never learn, do you?"

"Don't you walk away," I bark at him and move forward, pushing past Dad. All my rage comes back without any of the old fear. I might not see him as a mythical creature anymore, but I still hate him for what he did to me. "Come here, Uncle Luciano. Don't you want to talk about the old days?"

He looks at me for the first time and it's like there's no recognition in his eyes. I'm the boy he kidnapped, the boy he kept in a cage, the boy that nearly died in the fire that was meant for him. And he doesn't care. I'm probably no more than a footnote to him.

I go for my gun. To hell with this. To hell with negotiating. If he's only a man then he can die like one too, which means all I need is a single bullet to make this entire situation disappear. But the moment I level my weapon, there's a shout, and the crowd starts screaming as people run in every direction.

I realize my mistake only when it's too late.

This whole situation was a trap.

The busker tosses his guitar aside and is kneeling down to get a good line on me. A nearby couple are both drawing guns and aiming them in our direction. Dad's screaming something, and I'm still aiming at Santoro, but he's grinning wickedly like he couldn't care less.

The gunfire starts as Dad slams into me and knocks me to the ground.

It's chaos. Screaming and shouting. I smell blood in the air, and I recognize some of the nearby voices. Dad's breath comes ragged as he pins me to the ground, and I manage to roll to the side, grunting with the effort it takes. Dad groans in pain as all around me, the crowd panics and screams. Our guards outflank and kill the Santoro assassins, but it's chaos, and there's so much blood.

"Oh, shit," I whisper as I press my palms against a wound in Dad's stomach. Blood wells up between my fingers and I try to hold it back. "Simon. Simon!"

My older brother falls to his knees beside us. He's breathing hard, but he seems unhurt. "How bad?"

"Gut shot. I don't know what else is wounded."

"Fuck." He brushes Dad's forehead. "You'll be okay, old man. You're going to be okay."

"Get Santoro," Dad says through clenched teeth.

But when I look up, Santoro is gone, and the pier is emptying out.

Bodies lie scattered on the ground. Some of them are Santoro's people but a few are innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire. I get to my knees, shoving myself up, and hoist Dad onto my shoulder, gritting my teeth against every step.

"Call the doctor," I bark at Dad's men. "If you don't move now, your Don might die."

Simon clears the way, and we hurry to save our father's life.