Chapter 5 - The Economy of the Ghost
The silence in the penthouse lasted for a minute that felt like a decade. Vittorio Moretti stared at his son’s gun, then down at Sienna’s calm, unblinking face. Slowly, a dry, rattling chuckle emerged from the old man’s throat.
“You found a live one, Dawson,” Vittorio said, lowering his cane. He turned back toward the elevator, his enforcers stepping back in perfect synchronization. “Keep the five percent. For now. But remember, Miss Brooks… in Chicago, the news cycle only lasts twenty-four hours. A federal indictment takes two years to build. A bullet takes less than a second.”
The elevator doors closed, leaving Dawson and Sienna alone in the golden light of the fading afternoon.
Dawson slowly lowered his weapon, his breath coming in a long, shuddering sigh as he set the gun on the counter. He turned to look at her, his dark eyes filled with an intensity that made Sienna’s breath catch in her throat.
“You’re insane,” he whispered. “You threatened my father. Nobody threatens Vittorio and stays above ground.”
“I’m a waitress from Pilsen, Dawson,” she said, stepping around the counter until she was standing directly in front of him, her bandaged hands reaching up to touch the lapel of his open shirt. “I’ve had men throw glasses at my head for a late burger. Your father is just a guy with a bigger glass.”
Dawson’s hand came up, his large, scarred fingers wrapping around her wrist, his thumb resting against the white linen tape. He didn't pull her closer, but he didn't let her go either. The space between them felt like a high-voltage wire.
“Why did you do that in the yard?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Why did you step in front of the wrench?”
“Because you were looking at his shoes,” she said softly. “And because I didn't want to see you bleed.”
“People bleed around me, Sienna,” he said, his head dropping until his forehead was resting against hers, his dark hair mingling with her brown curls. “That’s what I’m for.”
“Not anymore,” she whispered.
May you like
Before he could answer, her phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text message from an unknown number.
We have Arthur. Bring the Moretti boy to the old grain elevator on Damen Avenue by ten o'clock, or your father gets his legs broken in three places.
