Page 18 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

Why ruin a perfectly good evening stuck in traffic by actually finding out what’s causing it?

My phone buzzes, lighting up the dark interior of the cab. It’s Dad. Again.

I stare at it, my finger hovering over the “End” button before letting it go to voicemail. The man has called me about a dozen times since he hung up on me this morning. Did he seriously think the fact that he hasn’t forgiven me for that first time, or his tantrum today would stop me from doing my job?

What's his issue with me leaving Boston anyway? He needs to fucking chill out with the paranoia and take up a nice, relaxing hobby.

Like volcano climbing.

Instantly, a pang of guilt twists in my gut, as it always does when I chafe at his odd behavior or his overprotectiveness. I really can’t blame him for being the way he is.

I finger my thin red scar through my shirt, a souvenir from an open-heart surgery at the age of five. One of a few aimless bullets had missed my heart by a hairline.

The bullets came from a deranged gunman who had opened fire in Airydale Children’s Park. I was one of the many who survived.

My dad—who is, in truth, my uncle—however, lost everything that day. His wife, his two boys, his brother—my father, and his sister-in-law, my mother.

Stricken by grief, he’d nursed me back to health and adopted me. But as if the universe wasn’t finished toying with him, I got thrown out of a car when a drunk cleared us off the road on the way to a hospital appointment, shattering my right hip in the process.

But here’s the real kicker: all of that happened in Boston.

So why the fuss about never leaving Boston? My life has been more at risk in Boston than anywhere else on earth. But I suppose I’ll never get it.

After I let yet another call go to voicemail, I decide to type him a reassuring text.

Daddy, can you stop worrying? I’m still in one piece, and no, I’ve not spoken to any boys. I’m now, in fact, on my way back. No alien abductions to report. Yet.

I switch off my phone before he takes that as an invitation to call—in other words, monitor my progress by demanding a minute-by-minute update on my location. Because nothing says, “I trust you not to get yourself killed,” quite like real-time surveillance.

The cab driver leans out his window and shouts to a man walking back from the front of the traffic jam. “Yo, what’s the holdup over there?”

The man shakes his head. “Some idiots in Porsches managed to wrap themselves around two huge Escalades. It’s a real mess up there, but can you imagine there are no emergency services on the scene yet?”

“No shit,” the driver responds. “How would they get through to the wreckage in this gridlock?”

“That’s the other thing, though, man. Ain’t no bodies over there. Given the pile-up you’d expect bodies, but . . . the cars are empty. It’s a fucking mystery.”

The forensic analyst in me is already putting the puzzle together. Four expensive cars in a pile-up. No emergency services. No bodies. It has ‘unnatural’ written all over it. Deliberate even. I shut off my overactive brain before it conjures up a whole conspiracy theory to torture me with.

The driver thanks the guy, then turns back to me grimly. “Miss, it doesn’t look like you’re getting to O’Hare in time for your flight tonight.”

I already suspected that, but having the man confirm it lends a note of finality. With a sinking feeling, I switch on my phone and start tapping, searching for hotels nearby, desperate for a warm bed and a moment of peace after such a hellish day.

I stop my scroll on The Chicago Marston, just less than a mile away.

“Hey, you know this place?” I ask, showing the driver my screen.

He squints at it and nods. “Yeah, nice hotel. Just off Wellington Avenue, not too far from here. It’s that high-rise building you can see all the way from here.”

I glance out the window, weighing my options. The hotel beckons, promising a hot soak and soft pillows to ease the day’s stress.

The driver eyes me warily. “You’re not seriously thinking of walking there, are you?”

I shrug. “It’ll be faster than waiting for this gridlock to clear.”

He frowns, his gaze drifting to the darkened overpass in the distance. “I wouldn’t recommend that. Just wait a bit, miss, and I’ll take you there once we start moving again.”

His warning sends a chill through me, but the hotel’s allure is too strong to resist. My phone buzzes again with another incoming call from Dad. I ignore it.

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