39. Davide

Four blissful days. I get four days of pure joy with my wife. We cook, watch movies, sleep together on every single surface in the house, basically act like newlyweds. We laugh, drink wine, fuck some more, and spend all of our time together.

I expected her mood to tank after that visit from her brother. I didn't hear what they said, but she's been pining for home ever since she got here. I figured speaking with him would only make that worse.

Except the opposite happened.

She seems lighter, happier, freer somehow, like all that tension and worrying were suddenly gone. Like she was really here with me now, not halfway between our life and the life she gave up.

It couldn't last. I wanted it to, needed it to, desperately craved her touch and her laugh every waking second of every day, but when I woke up to a message from Bruno, I knew it was time.

"I'm sorry, baby," I whisper, kissing her brow lightly enough that she doesn't stir. "But I have to."

Even if I'd rather stay in bed. I have to.

I get dressed slowly. My wounds are still painful, but I've healed enough that I can get around. I put on my suit and shove my gun into my waistband, and I stare at myself in the mirror. I wish Stefania were with me, her arms draped over my shoulders. But I can't have that, not really, not when I know Santoro is still out there.

Emilio picks me up at the edge of the oasis. "It's for real this time," he says, gliding the car to the south side of town. "Not the big man himself, but one of his best Capos. Fucking Louie Lombardi."

I lean back in my seat. If they really know how to find Lombardi, that could break this whole war wide open. He's one of Santoro's top lieutenants, and so far, he'd been impossible to track down. The story Emilio tells is entirely plausible: they took the intel we'd gathered over the last few days and stumbled on a lucky break. Apparently, Lombardi has a girlfriend in this part of town, and he likes to visit her once a week.

"He's coming tonight," Emilio says. "We're parked outside of a decent apartment building. It's not new, but it's not beat to shit, either. The exact sort of place a mobster would hide his little fuck-toy. I hear she runs the books for half his clubs. Who knows."

"We're setting an ambush." I can already see Lombardi at the end of my knife, spilling his fucking guts. "He knows where Santoro's hiding. If we can get at him?—"

Emilio nods, grinning huge. "Bruno knew you'd say that. I was starting to worry that injury put you on the sidelines for good."

"Fuck that," I say, staring out the window and thinking about Stefania. "I'm still in this fight."

* * *

It's a last-minute thing.We don't have a lot of time to plan and get set up, but it shouldn't be complicated. I get Emilio into position in the parking lot and order him to watch the door. He'll send a message when he spots Lombardi then he'll drive off. Bruno will take over from there and tail the Capo once he leaves. I'll nab the fucker on his commute back to whatever snake hole he crawled out from.

There are a lot of ways this can go wrong. In an ideal world, we'd tail him for a while, at least a few weeks, and get a better feel for his comings and goings. Except I don't want to wait that long, and I don't want to be cautious. This is my chance to hit Santoro and hit him hard, and if I get a little bit lucky, I can end everything tonight.

Waiting is the hardest part. My phone buzzes with messages from Stefania, but I can't bring myself to read them. I know what she's feeling, and there's a steady drumbeat of self-loathing pounding with my heart. I hate that she's alone in our house afraid for me. But I'm doing this because I have to, not because I want to, and I hope she'll understand that one day. I hope she'll forgive me.

At ten past one in the morning, a black car pulls up outside of the apartment building. The windows are tinted a deep black, but the man that gets out has to be Lombardi. Emilio confirms it by flashing his lights twice once he disappears inside then he pulls away, switching positions with Bruno to avoid any suspicion. The guy is notoriously careful, and we can't underestimate him.

I take a position further down the block. If this goes wrong, it might go catastrophically wrong, but if it goes right—I could end the war in a few days, tops. I think of Lombardi up in that building fucking his girl, some pretty little thing that's good with numbers and happy to take his dick and his cash in exchange for sex, and I almost feel bad for the guy. Getting ambushed because he wants a piece of action.

It's another hour before he comes back out. I can't really see him from where I'm parked, but Bruno shoots me a quick text letting me know the game's on. Lombardi must have some decent stamina, the fucking prick, staying up in that apartment for so long. I don't know him well, but I've seen him around town a few times. He's a stocky guy, on the short side, with dark hair and an ugly beard. He likes baggy jeans and polo shirts, and looks like he's twenty, when he's really in his forties. And he knows Santoro better than anyone else.

Rumors say Lombardi got involved with Santoro when they were both up in Canada. That puts Lombardi on the ground floor of Santoro's rise. If he's as vicious as I think he is, this won't be an easy fight, but we've got him on the damn ropes already, and all we have to do is bring it home.

Lombardi gets in his car and pulls out. I wait for him to drive past before falling in to tail him, but I can't get too close. There's not much traffic out this time of night and we're on quiet, residential streets. I stay way back so he doesn't get suspicious, and I switch out with Bruno at least once.

But something feels off from the second I start moving. I expected Lombardi to head back downtown, but instead he's driving south, away from the city. What the hell does he want out in the suburbs? I know Santoro's got businesses and clubs on the fringes of Chicago, but none of them are important, and I can't imagine Lombardi would want to visit those backwoods places this late at night. Unless Santoro's been staying out here.

I glance at the clock. It's late and I haven't heard from Stefania in a little while. I hope that she's curled up under the covers and sleeping soundly, because I don't want her waiting up, worried out of her mind. I know how she feels about this, and I hate it so much. If I could turn around and give up on this entire game, I'd do it in a heartbeat, but it's like every nerve in me is bent toward revenge.

Only there's another piece of me, another voice that's been whispering in my head for a while now. It's Stefania's voice telling me that I can be more than a killer for my family, that I can be more than a man defined by his past. It's Stefania's kiss, her laughter, the way she hunches over her plate when she eats, the way she brews coffee, the way she dries her hair, the way she puckers in the mirror before brushing her teeth, the way she grabs my hand in the morning and throws her leg over my hip and says good morning, dummy.

I can see myself with her. Not the way we are now, but normal. The way we could be if I turned this car around and went home. Catching Lombardi is important but killing him won't make my life better. Getting revenge on Santoro won't take away the hurt I still feel. I can't forget the smoke and the fire, the bars of my cage, the stiff skin and fried nerves in my hand. But Stefania can make all that bearable.

Lombardi turns down a residential street. I drive past, going slow. It's dark, no streetlights, with woods on one side and a few houses on the other, and the sign says it's a dead end. I double back and find Lombardi's car is parked at the end of the street, the engine still running, the lights still on, and he's right fucking there. He's fifty feet away, and all I need to do is turn and go after him, ram my car into his bumper, get out and hit him until he can't get away.

Then the knives, then the questions, then the cutting, then the answers. Then the end of the war. And all I have to do is turn.

But Stefania's waiting for me at home. Her body's warm and her smile's big, and she wants me there with her, she wants me the same way I want her. The same way I love her. And if I go down that street now and get myself killed, I'll lose it all and I'll break her heart in the process.

I call Emilio. "It's off," I grunt into the phone, rolling past.

"What the fuck do you mean, it's off?"

"He's parked at the end of a dead-end street. Who knows what the hell's in there? Feels wrong."

"You never back down," he says, sounding genuinely mystified. "Boss, it's fucking Lombardi. He's right there."

I know. I know. I fucking know. How am I supposed to explain this to him? Stefania's waiting for me at home. I can't keep doing this. I just can't.

But I don't have time to say anything else, because Bruno's car drives past mine, and I only have a second to turn my head and watch as he turns down the street, his tires kicking up steam.

"What the fuck is he doing?" I scream into the phone.

"Shit, I don't know?—"

The sound of Bruno ramming Lombardi's car breaks my stunned inaction. Glass crunches and metal bends, and gunfire erupts like the lightning storm at the end of the world.

I hit the gas and turn the wheel, whipping my car around. Emilio's right behind me, but it's too late. There are men in the woods firing at Bruno's car, ripping bullets through the side of it, tearing it into pieces. I stare in mute horror as Bruno shoves open his door and tries to get out, but he collapses to the ground, his chest riddled with red wounds. Blood leaks everywhere, splattered across his windshield, oozing down into the pavement. I count six armed soldiers.

It was a trap. It was a fucking ambush from the start.

I put my car into park and throw open the door. I'm not thinking anymore. Bruno's hurt, fucking Bruno, my soldier, my friend, he's right there, and if I can get to him?—

But someone's grabbing me. "You can't," Emilio says. "He's gone. Fuck, Davide, he's gone."

"You're wrong," I say, struggling, but he's right, and the Santoro soldiers are turning in our direction as they realize we're still nearby. Bruno's not moving, he's not running, and I don't understand why he's not trying to get away, but Emilio drags me back to my car and he shoves me into the driver's seat.

"Go," he shouts in my face. "God damn it, don't get killed. Fucking drive."

I stare at my friend, ashen, horrified, and I slam down on the gas.