Page 24 of Betrayal of the Mafia Rebel
Fabio doesn't stand back up. He remains crouched, his eyes locked on the spilled contents of my bag. No. Not the contents.
He's looking at the canvas lining stitched into the bottom of the leather.
He drops the strap. He reaches into his boot and pulls out a small tactical knife.
"Fabio?" I sit up straight. The cold dread rushes back into my veins. "What is it?"
He doesn't answer. He flips my bag upside down. He drives the tip of the knife into the bottom seam and slices it open with a single, surgical flick of his wrist.
The sound of tearing canvas rips through the tunnel.
He reaches into the torn seam. His fingers dig into the padding.
When he pulls his hand out, he is holding a small, flat black disc. It's no larger than a coin. A tiny red light blinks on its smooth surface, pulsing in the dim light of the single overhead bulb.
My heart stops.
The air leaves my lungs. The blood drains from my face.
It's a Bellanti-issue micro-tracker.
"They didn't just broadcast a fake signal to see how I'd react," Fabio says. His voice is a terrifyingly calm whisper. The quiet before the storm. "They put a beacon on you."
My mind spins. I didn't put that in there. I checked every seam I knew existed. I tore apart my own room. I went through every piece of clothing I packed.
They knew.
My father knew I was packing a bag. He knew I was planning to run. He let me leave the east wing, let me disable the cameras, let me walk out the gates.
He wanted to see where I was going.
The red light on the disc blinks again. A steady, rhythmic pulse.
A pulse that's been transmitting our coordinates beneath the Chicago River since the signal locked onto this room.
Fabio stands up slowly. The tiny black disc is pinched between his fingers.
The river rushing behind the stone wall is suddenly very close. Very loud.
And underneath it, barely audible over the hum of the space heater, comes a new sound.
The heavy, metallic scrape of the outer tunnel door being breached.
8
Fabio
The red light blinks.A single, rhythmic pulse against the rusted iron of the tunnel table.
The tunnel goes dead quiet. So quiet I hear my own pulse hammer in my ears. The iron door at the end of the tunnel groans. Hinges screaming against decades of rust. Boots hit the iron grating outside. One pair. Two. More.
They found her. Her own blood planted a tracker in the lining of her bag and sent a strike team to slaughter her in the dark.
Rage detonates in my chest. White-hot. Logic burns off in a heartbeat. I'm not a man standing in a subterranean Prohibition tunnel. I'm a predator. Forged in a twenty-year war. The only thing that matters in this godforsaken world is the woman standing two feet from me.
She's mine. They're coming for what's mine.
Fuck.
