Page 3 of Ruthless Daddy
I shrugged. “Yeah. River North.””
Sal made a note on his pad. “Be discreet.”
“Always,” I said.
Tonio flexed his bicep, grinned. “And then tonight, we hit Nero, right? Marco said it should be a big night!”
“I’ll be there,” I said, but the moment I said it I regretted it. Nero was fun, but there were only so many times I could watch Tonio chat up every girl in the place, and Sal stand sullenly by the dancefloor, checking business on his phone. Whenever I tried to have fun, I always felt as though I was doing it for someone else.
We finished breakfast. Tonio cleared the plates, stacking them in the sink and running water over the mess. He sang again, this time a snatch of “Nel blu dipinto di blu,” but in a falsetto so high it made the dog whine in protest.
I poured the last of the coffee, watched Sal finish his notes, and wondered if maybe it wasn’t so bad, this life. At least, in the minutes before the day started.
BytenIwasin a beige Toyota Camry parked on the wrong side of a permit zone in River North. The car was a rental and it smelled that way—vanilla air freshener someone had clipped to the vent. I’d spent the last forty minutes watching the front door of a brownstone that cost, minimum, three million on a good day. The man I was surveilling came out at 10:12 exactly, locking the door behind him and checking the knob like he expected it to betray him.
Vincenzo Russo. Forty-six, Chicago native, a wife in Lake Forest and a daughter at Northwestern, neither of whom were ever seen at this address. Russo handled accounts for Gianni Scordato’s U.S. shell company. Gianni was Uncle Arturo’s son, but had recently turned against the old man. He was working for the Valentis, now, which meant that—family or no—he was an enemy. Sal wanted me to watch him, log his routines, and see who he was meeting. The man was disciplined—suit every day, same café for breakfast, never talked to strangers. A soldier’s habits, but not the body for it. Russo was soft, doughy at the neck, always a little out of breath even after walking half a block. His briefcase was calfskin, brown, same one every day.
I tailed him in the Camry, two cars back, down to the diner on Franklin. He always took the window seat, right side, could see every approach. He ordered coffee and eggs, read on his phone, scrolled markets until he was finished eating.
Today was different. At 10:31, a thin man in a black overcoat came in, slid into the booth across from Russo, and put a manila envelope on the table. They didn’t shake hands. They barely spoke. The man in the coat had a face like an old blade—sharp, narrow, too pale for the neighborhood. He looked like he belonged in Warsaw, not Chicago.
They were together four minutes. The envelope exchanged hands, then the thin man left first. Russo finished his coffee, paid cash, left a tip.
I watched through the diner window, camera on my lap. When the meeting broke, I got out and snapped three shots with the long lens I kept in the door pocket. Neither man looked my way. They were good at what they did, too. That was the problem with surveillance in Chicago—everyone you trailed knew they were being trailed.
I followed the thin man on foot, keeping a full block between us. He walked like someone who knew how to lose a tail butdidn’t expect to have one. He turned east on Erie, cut through a parking lot, then went into a café on a side street where the baristas all wore black. I watched from the far corner, pretending to scroll my own phone.
He sat in the window seat, ordered nothing, and watched traffic. He was waiting for someone, but after fifteen minutes, no one came. He got up, walked out, and vanished down a stairwell into the blue line.
I memorized his face, snapped a photo of his profile through the café window, then circled back to my car. Russo was long gone, but his car—a battered Lexus—was parked in the same spot as always. I took a picture of the plate for Sal, double-checked my camera roll, and deleted the extras.
I was back in the Camry inside of forty minutes, three good shots and a fresh license plate in my phone. I knew the report Sal would want, and I’d already written it in my head on the walk back.
I was good at this. I had not been good at much else, but this—routine, detail, the patience to watch and not act—this had always come naturally. I hated that about myself. The same skills that let me notice the car on Lake Shore, the jogger’s hesitation, the dog’s shift in posture—they made me a ghost.
I sat in the Camry for a long time, heat on low, watching my own breath fade on the window. In Sicily, this job had been a game. Here it felt like a sentence.
I checked the rearview, scanned the block for anyone who looked twice, and drove home slow.
Byfive,Iwasat Nero, the club Marco Caruso ran with exuberant showmanship. The place wasn’t open yet, but the bouncer—who seemed to work 24 hours a day, let me past. Iwent up the back stairs, past cleaning staff and a dancer or two. There was a sound check—the music just coming on, low and muscular, thumping through the old brick and steel.
Serafina was in Marco’s office, her black dress pulled taut over a small, unmistakable bump, feet propped on the glass desk as she sorted through receipts. Her hair had come half loose from its knot, dark waves brushing her shoulders. The city had done something to her—her skin glowed, her eyes had an edge I hadn’t seen since we were kids. She paused mid-sort, one hand resting on her belly, and saw me in the doorway. She stood, the curve of her bump shifting under her hand, and tossed the sheaf of receipts onto the chair.
“You look thin,cugino,” she said, stepping forward and kissing my cheeks hard, like she could press calories into my bones through her lips.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
She pressed a palm to her belly, then pinned me with a look. “You’re not eating.”
“I eat plenty.”
“Sal says you’re not sleeping.”
I bristled. “Sal is insufferable.” She laughed—light, youthful.
Marco breezed in then, wine bottle in one hand, phone at his ear, jacket draped over his other arm. He grinned at us, set down the wine, and slipped behind Serafina, throwing his arms around her and kissing her neck. She shrieked, half in surprise, half to protect the baby, and elbowed him in the ribs.
He turned to me with a solid handshake that melted into a genuine hug—the kind that says you matter. “Come tonight,” he said. “Music, food, no bullshit.”
