Chapter 6 - Rain on the South Branch
Z
The South Branch of the Chicago River at two in the morning was a wasteland of rusted iron, rotting timber, and towering concrete structures built a century ago to store grain. Rain had returned to the city, falling in heavy, relentless sheets that turned the gravel roads into beds of black mud and masked the distant hum of the freeway.
I sat in the passenger seat of an unmarked grey sedan parked three hundred yards from the abandoned silos. I was wearing a dark rain jacket Adrian had given me, my eyes glued to the black silhouette of the riverfront through the sweeping windshield wipers.
Leo was safe. Marco had moved him to a secure, undisclosed location under the guard of four heavily armed men. I should have been with him. I was a waitress, not an operative. But when Adrian had prepared to leave the house, I had grabbed his sleeve just like Leo had done in the alley forty-eight hours ago.
“You’re not going alone,” I had told him.
“It’s dangerous, Willa,” he had replied.
“I’m already in it, Adrian. And if you go down, I’m just a witness waiting to be cleaned up.”
He hadn't argued. Deep down, I think he needed someone there who didn't view him as a boss, a target, or a billionaire. He needed an anchor.
Through the rain, a pair of headlights flickered near the base of the tallest silo. A black luxury sedan pulled off the mud road, coming to a stop near the edge of the dark, churning river water.
“That’s Julian’s Audi,” Adrian said from the driver’s seat. He was wearing a dark leather jacket, a heavy tactical holster clipped beneath his left arm. His face was set in stone, the shadow of the dashboard light turning his sharp features into a mask of pure vengeance.
A second vehicle pulled up three minutes later—a non-descript delivery van with faded commercial lettering on the side.
Two men got out of the van. One was wearing a thick yellow raincoat; the other was tall, slender, wearing an expensive wool coat despite the mud.
My breath hitched as the tall man stepped into the beam of the Audi’s headlights.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
It was Arthur Moretti.
Adrian’s uncle. The retired chairman of Moretti Development, the patriarch who had given the eulogy at Elena’s funeral, the man who had sat at the head of the dinner table during every holiday photo Leo had ever shown me.
Beside me, Adrian didn't gasp. He didn't curse. He just went terrifyingly, dead quiet. The air inside the car felt as if it had been drained of oxygen.
“My father’s brother,” Adrian said, his voice flat, emotionless, far more terrifying than if he had screamed. “He was the one who managed the hospital trust before he handed it to Elena. He didn't just steal fifty million dollars. He embezzled it over a decade.”
Through the rain-streaked window, we watched the exchange. Julian stepped out of his car, holding a thick waterproof pouch—the ledgers from Adrian’s safe. He looked nervous, jumping at every sound of the wind whipping through the rusted metal beams of the silo.
Arthur didn't take the pouch himself. The man in the yellow raincoat stepped forward, taking the ledgers and inspecting them under a flashlight.
“He’s going to kill Julian,” I realized out loud, a cold wave of horror washing over me. “Julian knows too much. Once Arthur has the ledgers, Julian is a liability.”
Adrian pulled a heavy black pistol from his holster, checking the chamber with a sharp, metallic clack.
“Stay in the car, Willa,” he ordered, his hand reaching for the door handle. “Lock the doors from the inside. If I am not back in ten minutes, take the car and drive straight to the police station. Tell them Marco has the files on the Swiss accounts.”
“Adrian, wait!” I reached out, grabbing his forearm.
He stopped, turning his head to look at me. In the dim, ambient light of the storm, his eyes were wild, dark, filled with a desperate, terrifying tenderness.
“Don't die for a box of paper,” I begged him, my voice cracking. “Leo needs a father. He doesn't need an avenger.”
Adrian stared at me for three long seconds. He reached up, his hand coming behind my neck, pulling me forward until his lips pressed hard, fiercely against mine.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hot, intense, tasting of rain, coffee, and desperate hunger—a promise made in the middle of a war zone. When he pulled back, his dark eyes locked onto mine.
May you like
“I’m coming back,” he whispered against my lips. “To both of you.”
Then he opened the door and slipped out into the black, rain-soaked night.
