Chapter 2 - The Men in the Warehouse
The warehouse on Fifth Street smelled of rain, rust, and old machine oil.
Vincent Torino entered through the side door at 2:37 in the morning without removing his gloves.
Tony Russo came in behind him.
Two of Vincent’s men stood near the loading entrance.
Neither spoke.
No one needed to.
Carlos Vega and Miguel Santos sat in metal chairs beneath a hanging industrial light.
Their red scarves were gone.
Carlos had the scar Sophie had described running from his cheek toward his jaw.
Miguel had the black spider tattoo crawling above the collar of his shirt.
Vincent stopped twenty feet away from them.
For several seconds, he simply looked.
Carlos tried to smile.
It failed.
“Mr. Torino.”
Vincent said nothing.
Miguel shifted in his chair.
“You got the wrong idea.”
Vincent slowly removed his gloves.
Tony watched him carefully.
He knew that silence was more dangerous than shouting where Vincent was concerned.
Carlos cleared his throat.
“The woman owed money.”
“Elena Martinez.”
Vincent spoke her name quietly.
Carlos glanced at Miguel.
“Yeah.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“She owns a flower shop.”
Carlos shrugged.
“A business is a business.”
“She is a widow.”
“She still owes.”
Vincent stopped directly in front of him.
“How much?”
Carlos hesitated.
“Two thousand.”
Vincent stared at him.
“You nearly killed a woman in front of her six-year-old daughter for two thousand dollars?”
Carlos’s arrogance disappeared.
“It wasn’t supposed to go that far.”
Vincent looked toward Miguel.
Miguel lowered his eyes.
Vincent thought about Sophie sleeping in a hospital room beneath his coat.
He remembered her scraped fingers.
Her broken nail.
Her tiny voice telling him that flowers did not get to choose the weather.
Then he remembered Elena on the floor with one hand wrapped around a piece of her daughter’s dress.
“Who sent you?”
Carlos looked up.
“Nobody sent us.”
Vincent turned toward Tony.
Tony placed a small black notebook on a wooden crate.
Carlos’s face changed.
Vincent noticed.
Tony opened it.
“Interesting.”
He flipped several pages.
“You keep collections.”
Carlos said nothing.
Tony continued.
“Baker on Morgan.”
Another page.
“Laundry on Eighteenth.”
Another.
“Three cab companies.”
Then Tony stopped.
“Elena’s Flowers.”
He looked at Carlos.
“The amount beside her name isn’t two thousand.”
Carlos’s jaw tightened.
Tony turned the book so Vincent could see.
The number written beside Elena Martinez was twenty-five thousand dollars.
Vincent looked back at Carlos.
“You have one chance to become useful.”
Carlos swallowed.
Vincent pointed at the notebook.
“Why twenty-five thousand?”
Miguel suddenly spoke.
“Carlos, don’t.”
Carlos looked at him.
Miguel shook his head.
“Shut up.”
Vincent moved his gaze between them.
That was enough.
There was something they feared more than Vincent Torino.
He almost admired that.
Almost.
Vincent pulled a chair from the wall and sat across from them.
“I’m fifty-three years old.”
Carlos frowned, confused.
Vincent continued calmly.
“I have spent most of those years learning one simple truth.”
He folded his hands.
“Every man talks.”
Neither Carlos nor Miguel moved.
“The only question is whether he talks early enough for the information to still be valuable.”
Miguel stared at the floor.
Carlos tried to appear unimpressed.
Vincent leaned back.
“I am not asking again.”
Silence.
Tony stepped forward.
Then Carlos suddenly said, “We were looking for something.”
Miguel cursed.
Vincent did not blink.
“What?”
“A book.”
“What kind of book?”
Carlos looked toward the warehouse doors as if he expected someone to come crashing through them.
“I don’t know.”
“You broke into a widow’s store and nearly killed her looking for a book you know nothing about?”
Carlos shook his head.
“Not a regular book.”
“Then explain.”
Carlos breathed hard.
“There was supposed to be a ledger.”
Tony’s expression changed.
Vincent noticed that too.
Carlos continued.
“Old records.”
“Whose records?”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent glanced at Tony.
Tony was staring at Carlos now.
“Who told you Elena had it?” Tony asked.
Carlos hesitated again.
Miguel closed his eyes.
Finally Carlos said, “Mateo Cruz.”
Tony looked toward Vincent.
The name carried weight.
Mateo Cruz was the leader of the Red Serpents.
He had arrived in Chicago seven years earlier with nothing but ambition and a talent for convincing desperate young men that brutality was a shortcut to respect.
Vincent had ignored him at first.
That had been a mistake.
“Where is Cruz?” Vincent asked.
Carlos laughed nervously.
“You think he tells us?”
Vincent said nothing.
Carlos’s laugh died.
“He contacts us.”
“How?”
“Different places.”
“Phone?”
“Sometimes.”
“Who gives him orders?”
Carlos’s mouth closed.
That answer frightened him.
Vincent leaned forward.
“Mateo Cruz is not intelligent enough to build what he has built without money.”
Carlos stared at him.
“He is not disciplined enough to stay alive this long without protection.”
No response.
“So I will ask you a better question.”
Vincent’s voice lowered.
“Who is behind him?”
Miguel whispered something.
Vincent turned.
“What did you say?”
Miguel lifted his head.
His face had gone pale.
“I said you don’t want to know.”
Tony gave a humorless smile.
“That sentence usually means the opposite.”
Miguel looked directly at Vincent.
“This isn’t street business.”
Vincent waited.
“It’s bigger.”
“How much bigger?”
Miguel swallowed.
“City Hall bigger.”
Tony’s expression hardened.
“Names.”
Miguel shook his head.
“We don’t get names.”
“But you saw someone.”
Miguel hesitated.
Carlos snapped, “Stop talking.”
Vincent looked between them.
Then Miguel said something that made the warehouse feel suddenly colder.
“The man wore your ring.”
Vincent did not move.
Tony stared at him.
Vincent’s family ring was simple.
Black onyx surrounded by a thin gold border.
The Torino crest had been carved into the center decades earlier.
Very few men possessed one.
Vincent.
Tony did not.
Marco did not.
Most lieutenants did not.
Only blood members of the Torino family were permitted to wear it.
Vincent’s nephew Luca wore one.
His cousin Anthony had been dead for eleven years.
And Vincent’s younger brother Carlo had been buried in 1962.
“Describe the man,” Vincent said.
Miguel looked toward Carlos.
Carlos was staring at him with hatred now.
“Thirty-five, maybe forty.”
Vincent’s chest tightened almost imperceptibly.
Luca was thirty-six.
“Hair?”
“Dark.”
“Height?”
“About six feet.”
Luca was six feet one.
Tony moved closer.
“Face?”
Miguel shook his head.
“He stayed in the car.”
“What car?”
“Black Cadillac.”
There were thousands in Chicago.
Vincent stood.
Carlos suddenly leaned forward.
“Wait.”
Vincent stopped.
Carlos looked desperate now.
“There’s something else.”
Vincent turned.
Carlos licked his lips.
“The widow’s husband.”
The room changed.
Vincent felt it.
“What about him?”
Carlos looked toward Tony.
Then back at Vincent.
“Cruz said the book belonged to him.”
Vincent frowned.
“Elena’s husband is dead.”
“That’s what Cruz said too.”
Carlos gave a weak smile.
“Except he laughed when he said it.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed.
“What was her husband’s name?”
“Daniel.”
Vincent knew only pieces of Elena’s history.
Daniel Martinez had died four years earlier in what newspapers described as a highway accident outside Joliet.
Elena had been pregnant with Sophie at the time.
The body had reportedly been badly damaged in the wreck.
Vincent remembered because he had asked Marco to quietly look into Elena after seeing her at Maria’s grave.
He had told himself it was caution.
Now he wondered whether even then he had simply wanted to know why a stranger’s kindness had stayed with him.
“What did Daniel do?” Vincent asked.
Carlos shook his head.
“Accounting.”
Tony suddenly became very still.
Vincent noticed.
“What?”
Tony said nothing.
Vincent stepped toward him.
“Tony.”
Tony looked up.
“There was a Daniel Martinez who worked for Bellucci Imports.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
Bellucci Imports was one of the shipping companies Vincent had quietly controlled during the 1970s.
It had carried legitimate cargo.
It had also carried things no customs declaration had ever mentioned.
“When?” Vincent asked.
“Early eighties.”
“That company had hundreds of employees.”
“Not in accounting.”
Vincent stared at Tony.
Tony continued slowly.
“Daniel handled internal reconciliation for six months.”
“And?”
“He disappeared.”
Vincent’s pulse slowed.
That always happened when he became truly angry.
“Why was I never told?”
Tony shook his head.
“Because nothing was missing.”
“An accountant inside one of my companies vanished and no one considered that worth mentioning?”
“He was a junior employee.”
“He was Elena’s husband.”
“We didn’t know Elena then.”
Vincent looked toward Carlos.
“What was Daniel supposed to have taken?”
Carlos exhaled.
“A ledger that tied payments to names.”
“What names?”
“Cops.”
Tony cursed softly.
“Judges.”
Carlos continued.
“Inspectors.”
“Politicians.”
Vincent’s face remained unreadable.
There had always been payments.
Vincent was not naïve enough to pretend otherwise.
But those records had never been kept together.
Not officially.
Anyone assembling them would have had leverage over half the city.
“Why would Daniel do that?” Vincent asked.
Carlos shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Did Cruz say?”
“He called Daniel a dead man who forgot to stay quiet.”
Vincent’s gaze hardened.
Carlos rushed on.
“He said the widow didn’t know what she had.”
“What does she have?”
“A key.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent walked away from the chairs.
Tony followed him several feet.
Neither spoke until they reached the opposite side of the warehouse.
“This changes things,” Tony said quietly.
Vincent looked toward the rain sliding down a cracked window.
“It changes nothing about Elena.”
“It changes everything about why she was attacked.”
Vincent turned.
“Find every record we have on Daniel Martinez.”
Tony nodded.
“Every payroll sheet.”
Another nod.
“Every shipment he touched.”
Tony hesitated.
“And Luca?”
Vincent’s face changed slightly.
“Do nothing.”
Tony studied him.
“If that description—”
“Do nothing.”
Vincent’s voice turned to steel.
“Until I have evidence.”
Tony nodded reluctantly.
Vincent looked back toward Carlos and Miguel.
“Call Donovan.”
Tony frowned.
“Detective Donovan?”
“Yes.”
“You want police involved?”
“They assaulted a woman and endangered a child.”
Tony looked surprised.
Years earlier, those words would never have come out of Vincent Torino’s mouth.
Vincent noticed the look.
“Something amusing?”
“No.”
“Then make the call.”
Tony left to use the office phone.
Vincent remained alone with the two men.
Carlos stared at him.
“You’re handing us to cops?”
Vincent looked at him.
“You sound disappointed.”
“You’re Vincent Torino.”
“I am aware.”
“I thought—”
“That I would make you disappear?”
Carlos went silent.
Vincent stepped closer.
“The old version of me might have.”
Carlos’s throat moved.
Vincent thought about Sophie.
Then Elena.
Then Maria.
“But the little girl you terrified has already seen enough darkness.”
He looked toward Miguel.
“You will tell Detective Donovan everything you told me.”
Miguel nodded quickly.
Carlos did not.
Vincent leaned slightly closer.
“And if you decide to forget…”
Carlos stared into his eyes.
Vincent’s voice became almost gentle.
“I will remember for you.”
Twenty minutes later, Chicago police entered through the loading doors.
Detective Claire Donovan walked first.
She was forty-two, sharp-eyed, with dark auburn hair cut to her shoulders and the exhausted expression of someone who trusted facts more than men.
She had spent nearly a decade trying unsuccessfully to put Vincent Torino behind bars.
Now she stopped in front of him.
“This is new.”
Vincent put his gloves back on.
“Take them.”
Donovan glanced at Carlos and Miguel.
“What did they do?”
“Ask them.”
“You suddenly believe in police work?”
“No.”
Vincent walked past her.
“I believe in consequences.”
Donovan watched him.
“Torino.”
He stopped.
She lowered her voice.
“What is this really about?”
Vincent looked at her.
“A little girl.”
Donovan seemed almost amused.
Then she saw his face.
The amusement vanished.
Vincent walked outside.
Dawn had not yet reached Chicago.
Rain still covered the streets.
Tony joined him beside the sedan.
“We have a problem.”
Vincent opened the rear door.
“When don’t we?”
Tony did not smile.
“The hospital called.”
Vincent froze.
“Elena?”
“Still in surgery.”
“Sophie?”
“Safe.”
Vincent waited.
Tony’s expression disturbed him.
“What happened?”
“Someone tried to enter Sophie’s room.”
Vincent slowly closed the car door again.
“Who?”
“Man dressed like an orderly.”
“What happened?”
“One of our guards challenged him.”
“And?”
“He ran.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Camera?”
“Security caught part of his face.”
“Send Marco.”
“Already did.”
Vincent started toward the car.
Tony stopped him.
“There’s more.”
Vincent turned.
“The man left something outside Sophie’s door.”
Tony reached inside his coat.
He held out a white envelope.
Vincent looked at it.
His name was written across the front.
Not Sophie’s.
Not Elena’s.
Vincent Torino.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
He opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed a young man standing outside Elena’s flower shop.
Vincent recognized Daniel Martinez from the old newspaper photograph Marco had shown him months earlier.
But this photograph could not have been four years old.
A newspaper stand behind Daniel displayed a date.
October 14, 1986.
Seven months earlier.
Vincent stared at it.
Daniel Martinez had supposedly died in 1983.
Tony handed him a second piece of paper.
Five words had been typed across it.
THE DEAD MAN KEPT TALKING.
Vincent slowly raised his eyes.
For the first time that night, revenge stopped being the most dangerous thing on his mind.
Because somewhere between Elena’s shattered flower shop and the warehouse on Fifth Street, the question had changed.
It was no longer who had attacked Elena Martinez.
It was why someone had spent four years making sure she believed her husband was dead.
May you like
And if Daniel Martinez had survived his own funeral, Vincent needed to know one thing more than anything else.
Where was he now?
