Page 97 of Freed
“One more thing.”
He looks back.
“While I’m in Chicago, I want everything in place here. His businesses, his accounts, his shipments, his political protection. I want it all mapped. I want names next to every weak point.”
Cesaro’s face goes hard. “You’re not planning a warning shot.”
“No.”
Because warnings are for men who still hope this can be solved cleanly.
I am past that.
When he leaves, I sit alone again in the amber light, the house silent around me.
Somewhere upstairs, Elizabeth is sleeping in my bed.
Maybe dreaming of Russo. Maybe dreaming of escape. Maybe dreaming of a life that no longer exists.
I look down at the word Chicago written across the page and circle it once.
Russo thinks he has stolen enough from me already.
He’s wrong.
Because now I know where to hurt him.
And in a week, I’m going to make him beg for the kind of mercy I no longer have.
19
Birdie
I wake to an empty bed. For one disoriented second, I don’t know what’s wrong. Only that something is. The room feels too quiet, the air too still, my skin damp with a cold sweat that makes the sheets cling to me.
Then a sharp pain rips through my side.
A gasp tears out of me. I curl, one hand flying to my stomach, but the movement only makes the pain flare hotter. My breathing turns ragged. No. When I look down, there’s blood on the mattress.
My whole body goes cold. Oh no.
No, no, no.
I shove the covers back with shaking hands and try to stand. Another wave of pain knifes through me so hard my vision blurs. Sweat beads along my forehead and slides down my spine. I make it halfway upright before my knees buckle.
I hit the floor so hard a broken sound escapes me.
The bedroom door flies open.
“What inthe hell was?—”
“Help,” I moan. “Something’s wrong.”
Lorenzo is across the room before I finish speaking. He rounds the bed and drops to his knees beside me, all the color draining from his face when he sees the blood.
“Cara,” he says, and the word is gutted. “What is it?”
I lift my trembling hand, streaked red. “I need a doctor.”
