Chapter 8 - The Strategy of the Absence
For three months, the Onyx Lounge was quiet.
Sienna didn't go back to her studio in Pilsen; she stayed in the safe apartment in the Loop that Vittorio had provided, her father now safe and sober, working the ledger lines at the Cicero terminal under Rocco’s watchful eye. She had twenty-four thousand dollars in her savings account, her hands no longer smelled like lemon rinds, and her rent was paid until 2027.
But every time the elevator doors in her building clicked open, her heart stopped against her ribs, searching for a gray suit that never came.
Dawson Moretti had vanished from the Chicago papers. There were no more reports of late-night brawls at the VIP lounges, no more crooked politicians complaining about the younger Moretti’s temper at the Gold Coast restaurants. Word on the street was that Vittorio had sent him to the docks in Genoa to manage the international shipping lines—a permanent exile for a son who had pointed a gun at his father’s enforcers.
“You look terrible, Sienna,” her father said on a rainy Tuesday evening, setting a box of takeout noodles on her kitchen counter. Arthur Brooks looked older now, his hair completely white, but his eyes were clear of the gambling fog that had ruined his life. “You’ve been staring at that ledger for three hours and you haven't turned a single page.”
“The logistics numbers don't match, Dad,” she said, her voice small and tired. “Vittorio is transferring the Rosemont casino assets into an offshore shell company called Baltic Line. It’s the same setup the Russians used before the feds hit them in 2024. He’s setting Dawson up to take the fall if the grand jury issues the indictments next month.”
Arthur sighed, his large, calloused hand coming down over her shoulder. “That’s what they do, honey. The old man is a snake. He uses his kids as skin until the winter passes.”
Sienna stood up from her chair, her hazel eyes flashing with that same dangerous, ice-bucket fire that had started the whole mess in the VIP lounge. “He’s not using him. Not this time.”
She grabbed her wool coat from the rack, her fingers reaching into the pocket where her old leather portfolio—now taped together with white linen medical adhesive—sat beside her keys.
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“Where are you going?” Arthur called out.
“To the port authority,” she said, her boots hitting the hallway floor with a sharp, synchronized rhythm. “I have to change the grey suit for a blue one.”
