Chapter 13 - The Sins of South Side
The rain began fell in heavy sheets as our armored black Maybach rolled through the misty streets toward Lake Shore Drive.
Desmond sat beside me in the rear seat, his face illuminated by the flickering yellow streetlamps outside.
His hand was clutched tightly in mine, but his skin was clammy, and a sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead.
The physical toll of standing unsupported before Moretti had pushed his still-healing motor nerves to their absolute limit.
“Pull over at the 31st Street harbor, Frankie,” Desmond ordered between shallow, controlled breaths.
“Right away, Boss,” Frankie replied, eyes darting to the rearview mirror with genuine concern.
The car glided into an empty asphalt turnout overlooking the churning black waves of the lake.
As soon as the engine died, Desmond released a ragged gasp, slumping back against the leather headrest.
His right leg went into violent, involuntary spasms, the calf muscle knotting into a rock-hard iron ball under his trousers.
“Nora...” he grunted, grinding his molars together to keep from groaning in agony.
“I have you,” I said instantly, kicking off my heels and kneeling on the carpeted floorboard between his knees.
I pulled up the pant leg of his tuxedo, exposing the thick surgical scar that ran from his knee to his ankle.
The muscle was locked in a brutal clonic seizure caused by overexertion and spinal nerve fatigue.
I drove the heels of my hands deep into the belly of the muscle, applying sustained ischemic pressure while flexing his foot upward.
“Breathe with me, Desmond,” I commanded, my voice firm, professional, yet overflowing with love.
“In through the nose for four seconds, hold, then out through the mouth.”
He followed my tempo, his chest heaving, his fingers digging into the plush leather armrests with enough force to tear the seams.
Slowly, under the relentless friction of my thumbs and the heat of my hands, the cruel spasm began to unravel.
The rigid cord of tendon loosened, and his breathing transitioned from a jagged gasp into deep, shuddering exhalations.
“I failed in front of them,” Desmond rasped, leaning his head back against the glass, eyes closed in raw frustration.
“You stood without support for three full minutes in front of six armed killers,” I corrected sharply, looking up into his face.
“You didn't fail, Desmond. You conquered them.”
“I felt the nerve die halfway through,” he whispered, opening his gray eyes to stare down at me with heartbreaking vulnerability.
“If they had waited thirty seconds longer to lower their guns, I would have collapsed like an empty sack on that mahogany table.”
“They didn't wait,” I said fiercely, taking his rugged face between my hands.
“Because when a lion stands, the jackals back down before they can count his scars.”
He looked into my eyes, and the darkness that constantly threatened to swallow him receded just a fraction.
He reached down, cupping my hands on his cheeks, pressing a desperate, feverish kiss into the center of my palms.
Suddenly, Frankie’s phone buzzed sharply from the front seat, shattering the intimacy of the moment.
Frankie answered, listened for less than ten seconds, and his broad face turned as pale as chalk.
“What is it, Frankie?” Desmond asked, his voice returning to command instant authority despite the residual pain.
Frankie turned in his seat, his jaw working as if chewing on broken glass.
“It’s about Nora’s family, Boss.”
My heart skipped a beat, ice water replacing the warm blood in my chest.
“My family?” I stammered, scrambling back up onto the leather seat beside Desmond.
“My father is dead, Frankie. I have no family left except my brother Tommy, and he’s been clean for two years.”
“Not anymore, Miss Nora,” Frankie said grimly.
“Tommy was picked up forty minutes ago by a crew working for the Cicero Combine.”
“They found him in a gambling den off 47th Street with forty grand in debt and a bag of uncut fentanyl in his jacket.”
“The Cicero Combine is run by Leo’s surviving cousins,” Desmond growled, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal malice.
“They didn't stumble onto Tommy by accident,” Desmond continued, piecing the chessboard together with terrifying speed.
“Moretti’s dinner was a diversion to keep us occupied in the Loop while Leo’s rats dug into Nora’s past.”
Tears of fury and guilt welled in my eyes.
Tommy had always been the weak link in our family, chasing easy money while I broke my back in physical therapy clinics.
I thought I had saved him by paying off his old bookies when Desmond gave me my first retainer.
Instead, my proximity to Desmond had painted a target directly onto my brother's foolish back.
“Desmond, please,” I pleaded, grabbing his lapels, my voice cracking with desperation.
“Tommy is an idiot, but he doesn't deserve to be butchered for my choices.”
Desmond wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me firmly against his ribs.
“No one touches your blood, Nora,” he vowed, the words carved in stone and sealed in fire.
“Frankie, turn the car around.”
“We aren't going back to the lake tonight.”
May you like
“We are going hunting in Cicero.”
The Maybach’s engine roared to life with a predatory growl, tires screeching against the wet pavement as we plunged into the midnight storm.
