Page 19 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

“Thanks, but I think I’ll walk,” I say, handing the driver a few bills. “I could use the fresh air.”

He shakes his head, his expression worried. “Be careful, miss,” he calls as I leave the cab.

The sounds of idling engines and honking horns envelop me as I weave between the motionless cars. The air is thick with exhaust fumes, and the glare of headlights illuminates the frustrated faces of drivers trapped in the gridlock.

I reach the median, pausing to catch my breath. The Chicago Marston looms in the distance, the skyscraper a beacon of comfort amidst tonight’s chaos. The din of the highway starts to fade away as I dart across Wellington Avenue, the sound of engines slowly giving way to the chirping of crickets.

I reach the quiet side road and approach the overpass entrance, which looks like a gaping maw of darkness. I quicken my pace, my footsteps echoing off the concrete as I walk right past the entrance and cross onto the sidewalk, clutching my bag tightly. The cuboid shape of the empty evidence box digs into my side, mocking me with a reminder of the day’s failures.

I sigh in relief when I finally take the small steps off the sidewalk and into the Marston’s huge parking lot. The lot stretches out before me, the high-rise building standing out like a promised land.

As I begin the final trek, an eerie stillness hangs in the air, the silence broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the crunch of tiny loose gravel beneath my kitten-heeled boots. The lot is pitch black, which strikes me as highly unusual, but the soft glow of the hotel’s lights urges me on. I allow myself a small smile.

Maybe things are looking up after all.

Suddenly, a loud pop shatters the quiet, echoing through the night. I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs. That sound . . . I know that sound. It’s the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

My eyes dart around the lot, searching the darkness, but the cars obscure my view. The shot came from the far end. That much I’m certain of. Every fiber of my being screams for me to turn and flee back the way I came, and the driver’s cryptic warning rings in my ears, but the thought of returning to the gridlocked hell when salvation is just a few hundred yards away is too much to bear.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

Maybe it wasn’t a gunshot. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me, conjuring up childhood fears of masked gunmen lurking in the shadows.

I force my feet to move, then I break into a jog, ignoring the dull ache in my right hip.

As I reach the middle of the parking lot, another pop rips through the air, stopping me in my tracks. This time it’s followed by a scream.

Shit. That was definitely a gunshot. Without thinking, I dart behind the nearest parked vehicle, which, thankfully, is a large delivery van. I crouch low, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my breaths pumping out in a light smoke in the night’s chill.

I think I hear another groan in the distance, but I can’t be sure. More than anything, I need to get myself out of this rapidly evolving nightmare.

What the hell is it about Chicago, and why, of all things, do I find myself in the middle of a shootout every fucking time?

Once more, I look toward the Marston, its promise of soft pillows and a warm bath rapidly evaporating. I’ll take staying alive over all of that. It’s not worth the risk of walking into a criminal operation.

I stay crouched for another ten or twenty minutes, ignoring the biting cold and my joints aching from holding the same position for so long. When I don’t hear any more sounds, I straighten and begin retracing my way back to the safety of the gridlock traffic. With any luck, I might even find my cab driver.

Suddenly, my phone vibrates against the metal evidence box in my bag, causing me to jump and accidentally drop my bag. The small metal briefcase clatters noisily onto the asphalt and spins a few feet away.

As I bend to pick up the case and my things—a pen, a tube of lip gloss, and a case of Tic Tacs—scattered onto the ground, my worst fears come to life: Footsteps.

Oh shit. Someone is coming this way.

I can’t tell from which end of the van they’re approaching, but I know they are not the footfalls of someone walking briskly to their car. No. These are much too slow. Heavy, deliberate. As if looking for someone in hiding. Terror slithers down my spine.

I can’t stay here. Whoever fired those shots might have seen me from across the lot, and I don’t imagine they’d be thrilled with the thought of having a witness.

I take the chance and with a sudden burst of energy, bolt from my hiding spot, running back toward the road.

Cursing my utterly moronic idea of wandering around in the dark in a strange place, I dare a quick glance over my shoulder to search for any sign of pursuit, relieved to find none. Still, I don’t slow my pace.

Just when I think I might have escaped whoever was looking for me, I slam into a solid wall of muscle.

I scream as the impact sends me back sprawling on my ass, my skirt hiking up dangerously as I hit the asphalt. Pain shoots through my elbow and shoulder, but I barely register it over the terror gripping my soul.

As I scramble to readjust my skirt, my eyes travel up the imposing figure standing over me.

He’s built like a linebacker, with a weathered face and a deep scowl that raises the hairs on my nape. A black trench coat hangs from his broad shoulders, the fabric flapping in the breeze. I try to scoot back, desperate to put some distance between us, but he bends over, grabs my arms, and hauls me up as if I weigh nothing at all.

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