Page 159 of Freed
No one hesitates because hesitation gets men buried in our world.
We’ve been in Chicago for a week now, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But this is even better, because it takes care of the man who harmed Birdie. And that’s all that matters now.
Within the hour, we have Cesaro’s location pinned down. He’s at a private poker tournament in one of the old hotels downtown, the kind of place that launders vice through crystal chandeliers and tuxedos. He has a room booked upstairs, and more importantly, he’s only brought a skeleton detail. He thinks he’s safe because he’s operating in Conti’s territory. He thinks no one will be stupid enough to make a move this deep in the lion’s den.
He has always underestimated men smarter than him.
I sit in the back of the SUV while one of my men spreads the blueprints across the seat. We map out everything. Freight entrance. Kitchen corridor. Service elevators. Two stairwells. Ballroom on the fourth floor. Private gaming suite above it.
“He’ll have men here and here,” my man says, tapping the corners. “Likely another two upstairs outside the room.”
“Likely?”
He looks up. “We’ve confirmed four. The rest is projection.”
I nod once. “Then we move like there are eight.”
He folds the plans shut. No one asks me if I’m sure.
If Conti was too blind to see what was under his own roof, then I will handle the correction myself.
We go in through the service entrance. The hotel kitchen is all heat and shouting and silver trays. Men in white coats barely glance at us before my people peel off and silence the two guards posted near the corridor. Only the soft pop of the guns sounds out of place.
Then we start moving up. Every second feels sharpened.
My pulse is steady, but there’s something else underneath it tonight. Rage is too hot a word for this. What I feel is colder. Cleaner. More lethal. This isn’t about proving a point to Conti. It isn’t even about the war he thinks he wants with me.
It’s about Birdie being harmed. More than that, it’s about her being used as as a pawn right under Conti’s nose. It’s about the fact that while all of us men have been circling her like wolves, Cesaro had already been inside the fold.
No more.
The first shot goes off before we hit the suite level.
So much for quiet.
One of Cesaro’s men rounds the corner too fast, sees us, reaches—and one of my men puts him down before he can get the warning out properly. But the sound explodes down the corridor anyway, and after that everything goes to hell.
Gunfire shatters the hush of the hotel.
Men shout.
Someone crashes through a table inside one of the outer rooms.
I move fast, low, firing as I advance. Marble chips from the wall beside my head. One of my men goes down with a curse and rolls behind a service cart, blood already soaking his sleeve. Another returns fire from one knee, controlled and merciless.
The corridor fills with smoke and noise and the ugly strobe of muzzle flashes.
This is what these lives always become in the end. Not power or honor. Hallways full of men trying not to die.
I push forward with two others at my back, cutting toward Cesaro’s room. The door at the far end is reinforced, but one of the side suite doors bursts open and two of his men pour out. The first one falls. The second one almost gets me, but my shot catches him high and spins him into the wall.
“Move!” I bark.
We hit the room entry hard.
Inside, it’s chaos—overturned chairs, cards all over the carpet, a bottle shattered near the bar. One terrified civilian in an expensive jacket is flat on the floor, hands over his head, while another man bleeds quietly beside the poker table and won’t be getting up.
Fuck. Cesaro isn’t here.
