Chapter 2 - The Command of the Syndicate
The backseat of the armored Maybach smelled of pristine leather and bitter espresso. Emma floated in a hazy, half-conscious state, her head resting against the cold glass of the window as the streetlights of Chicago blurred into long, golden streaks through the heavy rain. Every time the vehicle hit a bump in the asphalt, a sharp, white-hot blade of pain shot through her ribs, forcing a ragged gasp from her throat.
Beside her sat Dante Moretti. He had shed his tailored charcoal suit jacket, using it to drape over her shivering shoulders. He sat in total, unyielding silence, his large hands resting flat on his knees. His knuckles were white. The quiet radiating from him wasn't peaceful; it was the heavy, suffocating pressure that precedes a tornado.
"Drive faster, Leo," Dante said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register that made the driver immediately accelerate through a blinking yellow light.
"Should I call Dr. Bianchi to the penthouse, Boss?" Leo asked, his eyes darting toward the rearview mirror.
"Yes. Tell him if he isn't waiting at the elevator by the time we pull into the garage, I’ll find a new physician. And tell him to bring an ultrasound kit." Dante turned his head slightly, his dark eyes cutting through the gloom of the backseat to lock onto Emma’s pale, sweat-slicked face. "Hold on, Emma. You're out of the restaurant. You're out of the dark."
Emma tried to pull the expensive jacket tighter around herself, but even the minor movement made her wince. "The restaurant... Marco will... I have to go back for my tip envelope," she mumbled, her mind still frantically clinging to the survival mechanisms of the desperately poor. "The train ticket... it’s in my locker."
"Forget the restaurant. Forget Marco," Dante commanded, though his hand was surprisingly gentle as he reached across the leather seat to steady her shoulder. "Your shift ended the moment you fell. From this moment on, your only job is to breathe."
The Maybach descended into a private, underground parking garage beneath a towering glass skyscraper on the riverfront. The elevator was entirely private, requiring a biometric scan from Dante’s thumb to operate. When the doors slid open, an elderly man with a leather medical bag and wire-rimmed glasses was already waiting, his face tight with professional anxiety.
"Dante," Dr. Bianchi said, stepping aside as the mob boss carried Emma out of the elevator as if she weighed no more than a bundle of dry kindling. "What happened? Marco called the secondary line saying someone fainted during dinner service."
"She didn't just faint, Lorenzo," Dante said, kicking open the double doors to his penthouse suite and marching straight toward a sprawling, guest bedroom lined with dark velvet drapes. He laid her down on the silk sheets with meticulous care, stepping back only enough to allow the doctor access. "Look at her ribs. Look at her wrist. Someone has been using her as a punching bag, and I want to know exactly how much damage they did before I go hunting."
Dr. Bianchi quickly set his bag down, his expression hardening as he pulled out a pair of medical shears. "Emma, my name is Lorenzo. I’m going to examine you now. You are entirely safe here. Do you understand me?"
Emma could only nod, her lips trembling. As the doctor carefully snipped away the stained white uniform shirt from Marello’s, Dante stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest.
When the fabric peeled away, even the seasoned mafia doctor let out a sharp, hiss of indrawn air.
The entire left side of Emma's torso was a horrific canvas of trauma. The oldest bruises were a sickly, mottled yellow, but layered directly over them were deep, dark violet contusions that looked less than forty-eight hours old. The shape of a heavy boot heel was clearly visible near her hip, and three distinct fingerprint bruises were choked around her right wrist like iron bands.
Dante’s jaw clenched so hard a small muscle near his ear began to twitch violently. The air in the luxury bedroom turned ice-cold.
"Lorenzo," Dante whispered, the softness of his voice far more terrifying than any shout. "Tell me she doesn't have internal bleeding."
"The ribs are severely fractured, possibly cracked in two places," Dr. Bianchi muttered, his fingers lightly palpating the edges of the purple skin. Emma let out a sharp cry, her eyes tearing up as she instinctively tried to curl into a fetal position. "Easy, child. Easy. The ultrasound will tell us if the spleen or liver was nicked. But Dante... these aren't from a fall. This is sustained, deliberate violence."
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Dante didn't answer. He turned on his heel and walked out onto the sweeping balcony overlooking the Chicago River. The rain washed over his white shirt, soaking through the linen, but he didn't seem to feel it. He pulled a heavy encrypted phone from his pocket and dialed Carmine’s direct line.
"Find out where Emma Foster lives," Dante ordered, his voice echoing over the rush of the river below. "Find out who shares her bed. I want a name, a license plate, and a location within twenty minutes. If he’s in a bar, drag him out. If he’s asleep, break his door down. But do not kill him yet. I want him breathing when I arrive."
