Chapter 8 - Lemon Cookies and Kevlar
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At six-fifteen on Friday evening, an armored matte-black Mercedes-Maybach glided to a silent stop outside a faded red-brick apartment building on West Argyle Street in Uptown.
Nora sat in the plush leather backseat beside Julian, clutching two brown paper grocery bags from the Italian market he had insisted on stopping at along the way. She felt completely out of place—dressed in her own faded cardigan and jeans, while the man beside her wore a dark charcoal turtleneck under a tailored wool coat worth more than a year of her rent.
"You really don't have to come up four flights of stairs, Mr. Vane," Nora said nervously as Dario stepped out of the front passenger seat to scan the street corners and rooftops. "The elevator has been broken since August, and my apartment is the size of your walk-in closet."
"Julian," he corrected calmly, stepping out onto the cracked pavement and holding the door for her. "And if your brother is checking into Northwestern tomorrow morning, I want to meet the kid who kept you working sixty hours a week in my house."
He took both heavy grocery bags from her arms with one hand, resting his other palm lightly against the small of her back as they climbed the narrow, dimly lit stairwell that smelled of fried onions and radiator steam.
When Nora unlocked the door to Apartment 4C, a tall, skinny fourteen-year-old boy with messy brown hair and pale skin looked up from a chemistry textbook at the kitchen table.
"Nora!" Leo grinned, pushing back his chair—until he froze, his eyes widening to the size of saucers as a six-foot-three man in an expensive black coat stepped into the tiny entryway right behind her.
"Hey, kiddo," Nora said quickly, forcing a bright smile so Leo wouldn't sense any danger. "This is Mr. Vane. My boss from Lake Forest. He gave me a ride into the city tonight because of the rain."
Julian’s cold, intimidating mafia-boss persona vanished so seamlessly it took Nora’s breath away. He set the grocery bags on the tiny laminate counter and extended his right hand to the teenager across the kitchen table.
"Good to finally meet you, Leo," Julian said smoothly. "Your sister tells me you build World War II scale aircraft. Is that a P-51 Mustang on the shelf?"
Leo’s jaw dropped slightly before enthusiasm overtook his shock. "Yeah! The D-model with the bubble canopy! Most people think it’s a Spitfire!"
"Spitfire has elliptical wings," Julian replied easily, pulling out one of the mismatched wooden chairs and sitting down as if he dined at wobbly thrift-store tables every night of his life. "My brother Matteo used to build the Messerschmitts when we were kids. Always got glue all over the carpet."
Nora stood by the stove, watching in silent astonishment as the most feared crime boss in Chicago spent the next twenty minutes debating piston engines vs. early jet propulsion with a fourteen-year-old kid while she heated up marinara sauce and unpacked a box of fresh lemon cookies from the bakery.
For the first time in seven years, as Leo laughed at something Julian said, Nora felt that dangerous, forbidden turn of warmth in her chest.
Then Julian’s phone vibrated once against the wooden table.
Julian glanced down at the screen. His smile didn't falter for Leo’s sake, but Nora—who had spent two years studying every micro-expression on his face—saw his shoulders tighten by a quarter of an inch.
DARIO: Marcus and Elena didn't show up for shift change. And two black SUVs with New York plates just turned onto West Argyle from Broadway.
Julian stood up smoothly, buttoning his wool coat. "Leo, grab your jacket and your laptop. Have you ever seen the view from the sixty-fifth floor of the Drake Tower?"
Leo blinked. "Right now?"
May you like
Nora turned from the counter, her blood turning to ice as her eyes met Julian’s. New York plates. Pietro Morelli—Camila’s father—hadn't just bought off Marcus to embarrass Julian before the Commission. He had tracked Nora’s Friday night commute straight to her brother’s front door.
Suddenly, the streetlight outside the fourth-floor fire escape window shattered with the unmistakable crack of a suppressed rifle round.
