Chapter 8 - The Cost of Old Sins
The room tilted beneath me.
The smell of copper from the kitchen and the cold draft from the shattered window suddenly made the air impossible to swallow.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said, shaking my head violently as I scrambled backward until my shoulders hit the ruined bed frame.
“I am a waitress! I owe forty thousand dollars in student loans!”
“This book is fifty years old! It doesn't mean anything in a modern court!”
“This is not about modern courts, Tessa,” Mateo said, standing up with the ledger held firmly under his arm.
“The Commission does not recognize Cook County judges.”
“They recognize the 1965 Palermo Concordat.”
“If Dominic Costa gets his hands on this ledger, he doesn't just destroy the Vitiellos.”
“He presents this to the five families in New York as proof that Salvatore was an illegitimate usurper who ruled on stolen ground for half a century.”
“They would wipe our name from the Midwest in twenty-four hours.”
Down in the street, tires screeched against wet pavement.
A heavy metal door slammed shut, followed by the distinctive sound of multiple car engines revving in unison.
Mateo crossed to the window in two silent strides, peeking through the slats of the broken blinds.
Three black Suburbans were blocking both ends of the alley below.
Men in heavy dark coats were pouring out of the vehicles, carrying assault rifles and tactical sledgehammers.
“Costa didn't just send two scouts,” Mateo remarked, his voice dropping into the cold, clinical tone of a general preparing for artillery fire.
“He brought the whole South Side crew.”
“We can’t go down the fire escape,” I said, panic tightening around my chest like a metal band.
“They’re covering the alley.”
“We aren't going down,” Mateo replied, pulling a walkie-talkie from his belt and keying the mic twice.
“Gianni. Status.”
A burst of static hissed through the small speaker, followed by the roar of high-speed boat engines in the background.
“The Don is secure at the lake house, boss,” Gianni’s voice crackled through.
“Dr. Valenti says his heart is holding, but he’s asking for you.”
“Call Luca,” Mateo commanded into the radio.
“Tell him to mobilize the North Side units to 18th Street immediately.”
“Tell him Costa has crossed the bridge.”
“Understood, boss. Ten minutes out.”
“We don't have ten minutes,” Mateo said, sliding the radio back into his pocket.
He walked over to my closet, reached up into the drywall access panel in the ceiling, and pulled down a heavy steel ladder designed for roof maintenance.
“Up,” he ordered, pointing to the dark square opening.
“To the roof?” I asked, staring at the rusted rungs.
“In this storm?”
“Unless you prefer to introduce yourself to Dominic Costa’s heavy artillery, yes.”
A thunderous crash echoed from the first floor as the main entrance doors gave way under a battering ram.
Shouts in Italian and English echoed through the stairwell, accompanied by the heavy thumping of boots taking the steps three at a time.
I didn't argue.
I grabbed the rungs and climbed into the freezing darkness of the crawlspace, pushing through the iron trapdoor that led to the roof.
The Chicago wind hit me like a slap across the face.
Sheets of freezing rain whipped off Lake Michigan, stinging my cheeks and blinding my eyes.
The Chicago skyline loomed in the distance through the fog—a forest of glowing amber towers that seemed a million miles away from the blood-soaked roof of Pilsen.
Mateo climbed out behind me, pulling the heavy iron hatch shut and wedging a steel crowbar through the locking latch.
Below us, muffled thuds shook the roof as Costa’s men reached the third floor.
“They’ll burn the building from the inside out,” I yelled over the roar of the gale.
“Costa won’t burn it until he finds that book,” Mateo said, pulling me toward the parapet that separated my building from the adjacent garment factory.
Between the two buildings was a gap of six feet.
Four stories of empty air, dropping down into the concrete canyon of the alley below.
“We jump,” Mateo said simply.
I looked over the edge, watching the rain vanish into the black abyss.
“I can’t do that! My foot—I told you my ankle is sprained!”
Mateo grabbed both of my shoulders, forcing me to look directly into his eyes through the rain.
His hair was plastered to his forehead, water running down the hard angles of his cheekbones, but his gaze was terrifyingly steady.
“You kept my father alive with your bare hands on a marble floor,” he said, his voice cutting through the storm.
“You survived six years in this city without asking for help from a single soul.”
“You are a Vitiello, Tessa.”
“Now jump, or I throw you across.”
From beneath our feet, a burst of shotgun fire blew through the iron hatch, sending shards of rusted metal flying into the rainy air.
May you like
Mateo didn't wait.
He caught my wrist, pulled me toward the edge, and launched both of us across the black void between the roofs.
