Chapter 4 - The Glass Cage of Michigan Avenue
Sixty stories above the drowned city, the penthouse had become a butcher's abattoir.
The custom white wool carpets were stained with blood and tracked with dirty boot prints.
Carlo Barbieri hung from his wrists, suspended by heavy industrial zip ties looped through the wrought-iron banister of the mezzanine staircase.
His bare torso was bruised purple and black.
Three broken ribs made every breath sound like paper tearing inside his chest.
Yet his eyes remained fixed on the man sitting casually on his imported leather sofa.
Trent Falcone was forty-five years old, impeccably groomed in a charcoal bespoke suit, sipping twenty-year-old scotch from Carlo’s crystal glassware.
Two New York enforcers stood behind the sofa, automatic rifles slung across their tactical vests.
On the floor near the balcony lay the bodies of Carlo’s three personal bodyguards, executed cleanly with single shots to the back of the neck.
Falcone swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler and smiled with teeth that were too white, too straight, and entirely predatory.
"You know, Carlo, I really expected more resistance from the king of the West," Falcone murmured, setting the glass down on the mahogany table.
"You let us walk through your front security gates like we were delivering groceries."
"Your capo, Mateo, took three million dollars to turn off the exterior cameras and hand over the elevator codes."
Carlo spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the floorboards between his boots.
"Mateo always was cheap," Carlo rasped, his voice raw from smoke and pain.
"You overpaid him by two million."
Falcone chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"The humor is admirable, truly. But we are running out of time before the sun comes up and the Cook County coroner has to start earning his paycheck."
Falcone stood up, adjusting his cuffs, and walked slowly toward Carlo until their faces were inches apart.
"Where is the master encryption key?"
"The one that controls the shell networks feeding the rail distribution centers from Montreal down to the Gulf."
Carlo’s split lips curved into a cold, bloody grin.
"Go look in the fireplace, Trent. Maybe I burnt it with the trash."
Falcone sighed, signaling to the enforcer on his right.
The enforcer stepped forward and drove a steel-toed combat boot directly into Carlo’s cracked ribs.
Carlo groaned, his entire body convulsing against the zip ties, but he did not scream.
He had bitten through his own lower lip to keep from giving Falcone the satisfaction of a sound.
"We tracked the Escalade," Falcone said quietly, leaning down to speak directly into Carlo’s ear.
"Your loyal dog Frank took her down Wacker Drive toward the expressway."
"My clean-up crew ambushed them near the bridge."
Carlo’s breathing froze.
His head jerked up, his eyes suddenly burning with an animal fury that no amount of torture could extinguish.
"If you touched her—" Carlo hissed.
"I didn't touch her," Falcone interrupted with a cruel smirk.
"My men did."
"The car is a crumpled tin can against the river wall."
"Frank is dead behind the wheel."
Carlo’s face drained of what little color remained.
The agony that crossed his features was far worse than the shattered ribs or the blows to his skull.
He believed his sacrifice had failed.
He believed the woman he had loved since he was twenty-two years old was lying cold on the wet asphalt of Chicago.
"You see?" Falcone whispered, tapping the side of Carlo’s face with the cold barrel of his revolver.
"You threw away your life, your soldiers, and your empire to send her into a meat grinder."
"Now, you have nothing left to protect."
"Give me the encryption codes, Carlo, and I will put a clean bullet through your brain so you can join her before breakfast."
Carlo lowered his head, his wide shoulders shaking under the strain of his bonds.
He closed his eyes, and a single tear cut through the dirt and blood on his cheek.
"I have nothing to give you," Carlo whispered, his voice broken and hollow.
"Then pull the trigger, Trent."
"Because if you leave a single breath in my body, I will crawl through the gates of hell to tear your throat out with my teeth."
Falcone stepped back, his smile fading into cold irritation.
"Not yet," Falcone said, turning back toward the balcony.
May you like
"A quick death is for men who respect business."
"You are going to watch the sunrise, Carlo, and then I will drop you from your own balcony into the street below."
