Chapter 3 - The Safehouse on the Lake
Glass rained down like hail. The deafening roar of a high-caliber rifle echoed off the concrete walls before the sound of the engine outside even registered.
Lorenzo reacted in a split second. He slammed his body into mine, driving us both onto the linoleum behind a heavy industrial washing machine. He covered my head with his arms, his solid weight shielding me completely as a second round punched a jagged hole through the metal dryer door right where my head had been five seconds ago.
Screams echoed from the back of the laundromat. Outside, Lorenzo’s guards fired back, three rapid gunshots cutting through the morning traffic.
"Are you hit?" Lorenzo growled against my ear, his heart thudding violently against my ribs.
"No! No, I'm okay!" I gasped, clutching his coat collar.
"Stay down." He pulled a black sidearm from his shoulder holster, peeked around the side of the steel casing, and fired two precise shots through the shattered front frame.
A black sedan tires squealed on Western Avenue, speeding away toward the highway.
Lorenzo didn't wait. He grabbed my arm, lifting me to my feet with incredible strength. "We go. Now."
"My clothes—"
"Forget the clothes!" He grabbed my hand, dragging me through the shattered front entrance as his two guards formed a defensive wedge around us. They threw open the rear door of the armored Escalade, shoved me inside, and Lorenzo slid in right beside me before the vehicle sped off into Chicago traffic.
I sat on the black leather seat, my hands shaking violently, my chest heaving as I stared at the bullet hole in the front windshield glass.
"They tried to kill me," I whispered, the reality crashing down on me. "In broad daylight. At a laundromat."
"Vittorio knows I'm coming for him," Lorenzo said, pulling a linen handkerchief from his pocket and reaching over to gently wipe a tiny cut on my cheek where flying glass had grazed me. His touch was surprisingly soft for a man whose hands were built for violence. "He wanted to eliminate the only person who could translate my grandmother's full testimony."
"Why doesn't your grandmother just speak standard Italian?" I cried out, wiping a stray tear from my eye. "Why the old dialect?"
"Stroke four years ago," Lorenzo explained, his eyes darkening. "The doctors said she lost her modern language processing. When she gets agitated, her brain defaults to her childhood tongue. Vittorio thought he was safe because no one under seventy in Chicago speaks ancient Calabrian anymore."
He looked out the tinted window as we turned onto Lake Shore Drive, heading north away from the city center.
"Where are we going?" I asked, pulling my knees toward my chest.
"A private estate near Evanston," Lorenzo replied. "High walls, private security, completely off the books. My grandmother was moved there three hours ago under armed escort."
I looked at him, feeling a sudden surge of terrifying clarity. "You knew this was going to happen."
"I knew they would move fast," Lorenzo admitted, turning back to face me. "Which is why you are staying under my protection until this is finished."
"And if I refuse?"
May you like
Lorenzo looked at me, his gaze sweeping over my face, taking in my disheveled hair, my grey uniform, and the fierce, unyielding stubbornness in my eyes.
"You won't refuse, Claire," he said quietly. "Because you want justice for an old woman just as much as I want it for my father."
