Chapter 4 - THE DEAD MAN
Sera hit him.
Not elegantly.
Not strategically.
She simply hit him.
Marco caught her wrist before she could do it again.
"Sera."
She ripped free.
"Say it again."
The intruder laughed.
"Your brother's alive."
"Where?"
"That's worth more than my teeth."
Marco crouched beside him.
"You broke into my house."
The man's smile faded.
Marco's voice stayed almost conversational.
"You shot at me. You hit her. You're currently deciding whether the next five minutes of your life are painful or productive."
"Marco."
Sera's warning was immediate.
Marco looked up.
She didn't want torture.
Not for her.
He understood.
He stood.
"Carlo."
Carlo dragged the man away.
Sera remained in the kitchen.
Her hands began shaking.
She hated them for it.
Marco noticed.
He didn't mention it.
"Could he be lying?"
"Yes."
"Would Moretti know the nickname?"
"No."
"Anyone else?"
She swallowed.
"Eli."
Marco poured water and placed the glass beside her without trying to make her take it.
"What happened the night he died?"
"I already told you."
"You told me what you were told."
Sera stared at him.
He was right again.
She hated that too.
She had never seen Eli's body.
Closed casket.
Official identification made by a county employee.
Police report.
Overdose.
A frightened seventeen-year-old girl who had spent her entire life being told adults knew better.
By sunrise, Marco's people had found the first inconsistency.
The coroner who signed Eli's report had retired six months later.
Three years after that, he bought a $900,000 house in Arizona.
Cash.
The second inconsistency was worse.
Eli's fingerprints were never recorded from the body.
By noon, Sera sat inside Marco's office staring at a photograph from eleven months earlier.
A man stood outside a warehouse near Joliet.
Older.
Thinner.
Beard.
Scar across his jaw.
But Sera knew the way he stood.
"Eli."
Her voice broke.
Marco said nothing.
Sera touched the photograph.
Twelve years.
Twelve birthdays.
Twelve Christmases.
Every terrible apartment.
Every time she'd been hungry.
Every night she'd believed the only person who ever protected her was buried beneath six feet of Illinois dirt.
"Why didn't he come for me?"
Marco had no answer.
They found the warehouse that afternoon.
Marco wanted twenty men.
Sera wanted none.
They compromised at six.
The building looked abandoned.
It wasn't.
Inside they found medical supplies, restraints, three mattresses and photographs.
Hundreds.
Politicians.
Police officers.
Businessmen.
Marco.
Sera.
And one photograph of Eli.
Written beneath it:
ASSET 17.
Sera stared.
"What does that mean?"
Marco was reading documents from a metal cabinet.
His expression darkened.
"It means your brother didn't survive Moretti."
She turned.
"He belonged to him."
Sera looked sick.
A sound came from the corridor.
She moved.
Marco caught her arm.
She looked down at his hand.
He released her immediately.
They followed the sound.
Behind a locked steel door they found a man chained to a radiator.
Not Eli.
He was perhaps sixty.
Badly beaten.
Marco recognized him.
"Judge Warren."
The man's swollen eyes opened.
"Cavallo?"
Marco knelt.
"Who did this?"
Warren looked at Sera.
His face changed.
"Eli's sister."
Sera crouched.
"You know him?"
"He saved my daughter."
"Where is he?"
Warren coughed.
"Moretti keeps people through leverage. Eli worked for him because he believed you were alive only as long as he obeyed."
Sera stopped breathing.
"He thought Moretti would kill me?"
"He was told men watched you every day."
Tears filled her eyes.
She blinked them away.
"Where is my brother?"
Warren looked toward Marco.
"There's a meeting Friday."
"What meeting?"
"Moretti is consolidating the families. Businessmen, union heads, city contractors. Everyone who matters."
Marco understood.
"He wants Chicago."
Warren nodded.
"And he wants you there."
"Why?"
"Because he plans to destroy you publicly before he kills you privately."
Marco almost smiled.
"Efficient."
Sera wasn't listening.
"Eli."
Warren looked at her.
"He'll be there."
Friday arrived with freezing rain.
The meeting was held in the private dining room of an old Italian restaurant downtown.
Sera entered beside Marco.
Conversation stopped.
Forty men watched them.
Moretti sat at the head of the room.
Sixty-two.
Silver hair.
Perfect suit.
Grandfather's smile.
"Sera Voss."
Her skin crawled.
"Anthony."
Marco glanced at her.
Nobody called Moretti by his first name.
Moretti smiled.
"Still impolite."
"Still alive."
"Because I allowed it."
Marco stepped forward.
"Careful."
Moretti laughed.
Then a side door opened.
A man entered.
Sera forgot the room.
Forgot Marco.
Forgot how to breathe.
The man was older than the photograph.
A scar ran from his jaw to his collar.
But his eyes were the same.
"Eli."
His face collapsed.
"Sera?"
She took one step.
Eli took one toward her.
Then stopped.
A gun appeared in his hand.
Every man in the room reached for a weapon.
Eli pointed his directly at Marco.
Sera stared at her brother.
"Eli."
His hand shook.
May you like
Moretti leaned back.
"Now," he said pleasantly, "let's find out which one of them you're willing to lose."
