Chapter 2: Bloody Heart: Chapter 2

Security at The Drake is stiff, thanks to all the hoity-toity political types coming in for the gala. Rich people will take any excuse to celebrate themselves. Awards banquets, fundraisers, charity auctions—it’s all just an excuse for them to slap each other’s backs publicly.

Papa’s restaurant La Mer is providing the king crab legs, scarlet prawns, and half-shell oysters that will make up the gargantuan seafood tower in the center of the buffet. We bid cheap on this job, because we won’t be making our profit on shrimp tonight.

I pull my van up to the service doors and help the kitchen staff unload the crates of iced shellfish. One of the security guards pokes his head into the kitchen, watching us crack open the crates.

“What do you even call that?” he says, staring at the scarlet prawns with a horrified expression.

“It’s the best shrimp you can’t afford,” I tell him, grinning.

“Oh yeah? What’s that cost?”

“Hundred and nineteen a pound.”

“Get the fuck outta town!” He shakes his head in disbelief. “You better pull me a full-size mermaid with d-cup titties out of the ocean for that price.”

Once we’ve got all the product safely stowed in the walk-in refrigerator, I nod to Vinny. We set the last chest under a room-service cart.

Vinny works at The Drake, sometimes as a bellhop, and sometimes as a dishwasher. His real job is procuring items for guests—stuff a little more difficult to come by than fresh towels and extra ice.

I’ve known him since we were running around Old Town in Spider-Man sneakers. I got a whole hell of a lot bigger, while Vinny stayed the same—skinny, freckled, with terrible teeth but a great smile.

We take the service elevator up to the fourth floor. The elevator lurches alarmingly under our combined weight. The Drake is one of Chicago’s roaring 20s hotels—renovated since then, but not much. It’s all brass doorknobs, crystal chandeliers, tufted chairs, and that musty smell of carpets and drapery that haven’t really been cleaned in the last fifty years.

I bet Dukuly is pissed at being shoved into some common suite on the fourth floor. He’s got a lake-side view, but it’s a far cry from the Presidential Suite. Unfortunately for him, he’s not the most important person in town for the gala, not even close. At this particular event, he barely ranks in the top half.

That’s probably why he’s still sulking in his room while the gala’s about to begin. I can smell the cigar smoke seeping out from under his door.

“You want me to go in with you?” Vinny asks.

“Nah,” I say. “You can get back downstairs.”

It’s gonna be all hands on deck in the kitchen. I don’t want Vinny getting into trouble, or anybody to come looking for him. Plus, I’ve done business with Dukuly twice before. So I don’t anticipate any trouble.

Vinny leaves me with the room-service cart.

I knock on the door—three taps, as agreed.

Dukuly’s bodyguard cracks it open. He’s your typical burly n’ surly type, dressed in a nice suit, but looking like he lives at the top of a beanstalk.

He lets me into the suite, which consists of two bedrooms with a sitting room in between. After a quick pat-down to make sure I came unarmed, he grunts, “Have a seat.”

I settle into the chintz sofa, while the ogre takes an armchair opposite. A second bodyguard leans up against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. This guy is a little leaner than his friend, with long hair pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. I want to tell him that the henchman ponytail went out of style with the last of the Steven Seagal movies. Before I get the chance, Dukuly comes out of his room, puffing furiously on his cigar.

He’s already dressed in his formal tux, which strains around his belly. He’s one of those men who practically looks pregnant because his weight is solely concentrated around the middle, between spindly arms and legs. His closely-trimmed beard is speckled with gray, and his thick eyebrows form a heavy shelf over his eyes.

“Dante,” he says, by way of greeting.

“Edwin.” I nod.

“Cigar?” He holds out a premium Cuban cigar, heavy and fragrant.

“Thanks,” I say, standing up to take it from him.

“Come by the window,” he says. “We had a complaint from the front desk. Apparently, there’s no smoking in any of the rooms anymore. What is this country coming to?”

He nods to Ponytail, who hastily unlatches the window and forces up the sash. No easy task, since the old windowpane is practically welded in place by time and stiffness. There’s no screen—just a straight four-story drop to the awning below.

I can see limos and town cars pulling up to the curb, with partygoers streaming out of their doors, the women in bright jewel tones, the men in shades of black, gray, and navy.

Beyond that, I see cyclists riding along the lakeshore, and sparkling blue water punctuated by white sails.

“Nice view,” I say to Dukuly as he lights my cigar.

“The lake?” he scoffs. “I’ve stayed in the Royal Suite of the Burj Al Arab. This is nothing.”

I puff my cigar to hide my smile. I knew he’d be salty about the room.

Edwin Dukuly is the Minister of Lands, Mines, and Energy for Liberia. But it’s blood diamonds that pay for his Vacheron watch and hefty cigars. Like a modern Marco Polo, he brings little baggies of diamonds with him everywhere he goes to trade for whatever local luxuries he’s craving.

I’ve got those luxuries with me right now. Under six inches of ice in my seafood chest.

“Shall we?”

He motions to the seating area once more. I stub out my cigar on the windowsill and follow him over.

We make an amusing tableau—four large men, stuffed into pink-and-white striped chairs.

I haul the chest up onto the coffee table, cracking the lid. I lift out the liner that contains the ice and a camouflaging layer of shrimp, revealing the guns beneath.

I’ve brought him everything he asked for: three Kalashnikovs, four Glocks, a Ruger, and one hand-held RPG-7 grenade launcher, typically used for taking down tanks. I have no fucking clue what he plans to do with that—I suspect he saw it in a movie once and thought it looked cool.

There’s also a tightly-wrapped kilo of cocaine. Nice, powdery Colombian stuff. Dukuly’s eyes light up when he sees that. He takes a little silver knife out of the breast pocket of his tuxedo and cuts through the wrapping. He scoops up a mound of the powder on the tip of his knife, pressing it to his nostril and snorting hard. Then he rubs the residue on his tongue and gums.

“Ah!” he sighs, setting the knife back down on the table. “I can always count on you, Dante.”

To his men he says, “Put all that away, someplace the maids won’t find it.”

I clear my throat, reminding him of the small matter of payment.

“Yes, of course,” he says. He takes a little velvet bag out that same breast pocket, passing it over to me. I pour the diamonds out on my palm.

I have a jeweler’s loupe in my pocket, but I don’t need to use it to see that Dukuly thinks I’m an idiot.

The diamonds are cloudy and small. The size and quantity are less than half the value we agreed upon.

“What’s this?” I say.

“What?” Dukuly grunts, pretending ignorance. He’s not a very good actor.

“These are shit,” I say.

Dukuly’s face flushes. His heavy brows fall so low that I can barely see the glitter of his eyes underneath.

“You’d better watch your words, Dante.”

“Of course,” I say, leaning forward from my seat and looking right at him. “Let me phrase this in the most polite way possible.

.”

The burly bodyguard snatches up one of the Glocks and points it directly at my face. I ignore him.

To Dukuly I say, “Are you serious? You’re gonna shoot me in the middle of the Drake Hotel?”

Dukuly chuckles. “I have diplomatic immunity, my friend. I could shoot you on the front steps of the police station.”

“You don’t have immunity from the Outfit. My father is the Don of Chicago. Or did you forget?”

“Oh yes, Enzo Gallo.” Dukuly nods his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “A very powerful man. Or at least he was . . . I heard he lost his balls when he lost his wife. Was that your mother, or did he father you on some other whore?”

My mother is five years in the ground. But there’s not an hour of the day when I don’t think of her.

Rage surges through me like boiling oil, flooding my veins.

In one movement, I snatch the little silver knife up off the table and bury it in the side of Dukuly’s neck. I jam it in so deep that half the hilt disappears along with the blade.

Dukuly claps his hand over the wound, eyes bulging and mouth silently opening and closing like a fish out of water.

I hear the as the burly bodyguard tries to shoot me in the back. The Glock fires impotently. I’m not stupid enough to bring loaded weapons to an arms deal.

However, I have no doubt that there’s plenty of bullets in the guns inside their jackets.

So I spin Dukuly around, using his body as a meat shield. I have to crouch—he’s not as tall as I am.

Sure enough, Ponytail already has his gun out. He fires six shots in rapid succession, riddling the chest and bulging belly of his boss. He knows Dukuly is already dead—he’s motivated by revenge now.

.

These fuckers tried to steal from me. They insulted my family.

Just as the boss is responsible for the actions of his soldiers, so the soldiers will pay for their boss’s words. I’m going to rip their heads off their fucking shoulders.

But I don’t like my odds at the moment—two against one, and I’m the only one without a gun.

So instead, I sprint toward the window, dragging Dukuly’s limp body along as my shield. I dive through the open frame, turning my shoulders sideways so I’ll fit. It’s a tight squeeze—I barely make it, through sheer force of momentum.

I fall four stories through the air, watching the sky and the pavement swap positions.

Then I crash into the awning.

The canvas frame wasn’t meant to support 220 lbs of plummeting mass. The fabric tears and the struts collapse, encasing me in a cocoon of wreckage.

I hit the ground hard. Hard enough to knock the air out of me, but with a whole fuck of a lot less impact than I deserve.

Still, I’m dazed. It takes me a minute to clear my head. I flail my arms, trying to extricate myself from the mess.

When I look up at the window, I see the burly bodyguard glaring down at me. I’m sure he’d like to fire a few shots in my direction. He’s only holding back because his diplomatic immunity expired with his boss.

That’s when I see Ponytail barreling around the side of the building. He sprinted down those four flights of stairs like an Olympian. I watch him hurtling toward me, debating whether I should strangle him with my bare hands or pound his face into pulp.

Then I see the dozen hotel employees and gala guests swarming toward me, and I remember that I made a hell of a lot of noise falling down. I’m sure somebody’s already called the cops.

So instead, I hunt for the closest vehicle with its engine running. I see a sleek black Benz pulled up to the curb. The driver’s seat is empty, but the headlights are beaming.

Perfect.

I wrench open the door and jump into the front seat.

As I put the car in drive, I get one perfect glimpse of Ponytail’s enraged face through the passenger window. He’s so mad he doesn’t give a damn who’s watching—he reaches for his gun.

I give him a little salute as I floor the gas.

The engine roars, and the car jerks away from the curb like a racehorse let out of its stall. The Benz may look like a boat, but it’s got a decent engine under the hood.

My brother Nero would love this. He’s obsessed with cars of all kinds. He’d appreciate the handling, and this cushy leather seat that seems to re-form itself around my body.

The car smells of leather, and whiskey, and something else . . . something sweet and warm. Like sandalwood and saffron.

I’m speeding down Oak Street when a face pops up in the rear-view mirror. It startles me so much that I jerk the wheel to the left, almost plowing into a bus headed in the opposite direction. I have to swerve right to compensate, so the car fishtails back and forth several times before smoothing out again.

I think I let out a yell, and the person in the back gave a little shriek in return—betraying her as a girl.

I want to pull over, but I’ve got to make sure no one’s following me first. So I keep driving west toward the river, trying to catch another glimpse at my surprise passenger.

She’s hunkered down in the backseat again, obviously terrified.

“It’s alright,” I say. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I try to make my voice sound as gentle as possible, but it comes out in a rough growl as usual. I don’t know how to be charming to women in the best of circumstances, let alone when I’ve accidentally kidnapped one.

There’s silence for a minute. Then she squeaks, “Could you please . . . let me out?”

“I will,” I say. “In a minute.”

I hear a little gulp and rustling around.

“What’s that noise?” I bark.

“Just . . . just my dress,” she whispers.

“Why is it so loud?”

“It’s quite puffy . . .”

Right, of course. She was probably about to go inside the gala. Though I don’t know why her car was pulled to the side with no chauffeur in sight.

“Where was your driver?” I ask her.

She hesitates, like she’s scared to answer me. But she’s more afraid not to.

“I asked him to step out for a minute,” she says. “I was . . . upset.”

She’s sitting up a little straighter now, so I can see her face again. In fact, it’s almost perfectly framed in the rectangle of the rear-view mirror. It’s the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

There should be a better word than beautiful. Maybe there is, and I’m just not educated enough to know it.

What do you call it when you can’t tear your eyes away from a face? When you think you’re looking at the loveliest angle, and then the raise of an eyebrow or an exhale through the lips rearranges the features, and you’re freshly stunned all over again?

What do you call it when your heart is thudding faster than it did when there was a gun pointed at your face? And you’re sweating, yet your mouth is dry. And all you can think is, Her face is square, with a pointed chin. Her eyes are wide-set, almond-shaped, and golden-brown in color, like a little tigress. Her cheekbones and jawline are painfully sharp, while her wide, full mouth looks as soft as rose petals. Her hair is pulled up in a sleek chignon, showing off the slender stalk of her neck and her bare shoulders. Her skin is polished bronze—the smoothest skin I’ve ever seen.

Finding a girl like that in the back of the car is alarming. Like putting a quarter in a gumball machine, and the Hope Diamond tumbles out.

This can’t end well.

“Who are you?” I say.

“Simone Solomon. My father is Yafeu Solomon.”

She says those two sentences together, as if she’s used to introducing herself by way of her father. Which means he must be someone important, though I’ve never heard his name before.

I don’t give a fuck about him at the moment.

I want to know why she was crying alone in her car when she was supposed to be sipping champagne with the rest of the fat cats.

“Why were you upset?” I ask her.

“Oh. Well . . .”

I watch the color spread across her cheeks, pink suffusing the brown, like a chameleon changing color.

“I got accepted to a design school. But my father . . . there’s a different university I’m meant to attend.”

“What’s design school?”

“Fashion design . . .” She blushes harder. “You know, clothes and accessories and all that . . .”

“Did you make that dress?” I ask her.

As soon as I say it, I know it’s a stupid question. Rich people don’t make their own clothes.

Simone doesn’t laugh at me, though. She smooths her hands over the pink tulle skirt, saying, “I wish I did! It’s Ellie Saab Couture—similar to one that Fan Bingbing wore to the Cannes Film Festival in 2012. Hers had a cape, but the tulle and the beading in this sort of botanical shape . . .”

She breaks off. Maybe she saw that she might as well be speaking Mandarin for all I understood. I don’t know fuck all about fashion. I own a dozen white t-shirts and the same amount in black.

But I wish she wouldn’t stop. I like the way she speaks. Her voice is soft, elegant, cultured . . . the exact opposite of mine. Besides, people are always interesting when they talk about something they love.

“You don’t care about dresses,” she says, laughing softly at herself.

“No,” I say. “Not really. I like listening to you, though.”

“To me?” She laughs again. She forgot to be scared when she was talking about the dress.

“Yeah,” I say. “Is that surprising?”

“Well . . .” she says. “Everything about this is a little surprising.”

Now that I’m sure no one followed me, I’ve turned north and I’m driving almost aimlessly. I should get rid of the car—it’s probably been reported stolen. I should get rid of the girl too, for similar reasons. I could drop her off on any corner. And yet, I don’t.

“Do you have an accent?” I ask her. I think she does, but I can’t tell from where.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve lived a lot of places.”

“Where?”

“Well, I was born in Paris—that’s where my mother’s family lives. Then we moved to Hamburg, then Accra . . . after that, I think it was Vienna, Barcelona, Montreal for a while—god, that was cold. Then to DC, which wasn’t much better. After that I went to boarding school in Maisons-Laffitte.”

“Why were you always moving?”

“My father’s an ambassador. And a businessman.”

“What about your mom?”

“She was a chocolate heiress.” Simone smiles proudly. “Her maiden name was Le Roux. You know Le Roux truffles?”

I shake my head. I feel ignorant and uncultured next to Simone. Even though she’s so young, it sounds like she’s been everywhere in the world.

“How old are you?” I ask her.

“Eighteen.”

“Oh. You look younger.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

She laughs. “You look older.”

“I know.”

Our eyes are locked in that rear-view mirror, and we’re smiling at each other. Smiling much more than I usually do. I don’t know why we’re both so amused. There’s a sort of energy between us, where the conversation flows easily, and nothing we say seems out of place. Even though we’re strangers, in this ass-backward situation.

“Are you staying at The Drake?” I ask her.

“No—we rented a house in Chicago for the summer.”

“Where?”

“Lincoln Park.”

“I’m in Old Town.”

The neighborhoods are right next to each other.

I shouldn’t have told her that—if she talks to the cops afterward, if she gives them a description of me, I won’t be that hard to find. There are only so many Italian men the size of a draft horse in Old Town. Plus, the Gallos are hardly unknown to the Chicago PD.

“I better get going,” I say to her.

My mouth says the words. My body’s not quite in agreement. I’ve pulled the car into the nearest parking lot, but I’m not getting out.

I see those tawny-colored eyes, watching me in the mirror. She blinks slowly, like a cat would do. Mesmerizing me.

“I’m going to leave you at the History Museum,” I tell her. “Do you have a phone?”

“Yes,” she says.

That was sloppy, too. She could have called the police while we were driving, without me noticing.

Quickly, I wipe down the steering wheel and paddle shifters with the front of my shirt, making sure to remove any prints. I do the door handle, too.

“I’m getting out,” I tell her. “Do me a favor and wait a couple minutes before you call anyone.”

“Wait!” Simone cries.

I turn around, facing her fully for the first time.

The sight of her in the flesh, not just reflected, takes my breath away. I literally can’t breathe.

She darts forward across the seats and kisses me.

It only lasts a second, her delicate lips pressed against mine. Then she sits back again, looking almost as startled as I am.

“Goodbye,” she says.

I stumble out of the car, into the park.