Chapter 4 - The Backroom Syndicate
The rain was turning into a steady, freezing downpour by the time Tessa clocked out at midnight.
She walked out the back service door of Bellavita, pulling her wool coat tight against the wind. Her mind was racing. The heavy black card felt like a piece of lead in her coat pocket. She knew who Salvatore Marquetti was—everyone in Chicago knew the name, even if the police blotters rarely mentioned him. The Marquetti family controlled the docks, the freight yards, and half the financial district's shadow economy. They were old-world syndicate, operating by a code of absolute loyalty and swift, unmerciful retribution.
As she turned onto Dearborn Street toward the subway entrance, a sleek, tinted black Mercedes sedan pulled silently out from the shadows of an alleyway and drifted alongside her at a walking pace.
The rear passenger window lowered smoothly with a soft mechanical hum.
A man with broad shoulders, a sharp scar running down the left side of his neck, and cold, professional eyes looked out at her from the back seat. Victor Sterling—Salvatore’s primary enforcer and chief of security. Tessa had seen his photo in a two-year-old investigative piece in the Chicago Sun-Times headlined The Ghost of the West Side.
“Miss Whitlock,” Sterling said. His voice was low, gravelly, and carried the flat, unhesitating authority of a former military contractor. “Mr. Marquetti asked me to ensure you got home safely. Get in.”
Tessa stopped walking. She looked at the car, then down the empty, rain-slicked street. “I live three blocks away. I can walk.”
“Mr. Marquetti doesn't like variables, Miss Whitlock,” Sterling replied, his expression entirely unchanging. “And right now, you are a very significant variable in a world where variables usually end up in the lake. Get in the car.”
There was no threat in his tone—just an absolute statement of fact. Tessa weighed her options for half a second, realized arguing with a Marquetti enforcer in a dark alley at midnight was a losing game, and opened the rear door, sliding into the warm, leather-scented interior.
The door clicked shut, locking automatically.
“Drive to the north side, Frank,” Sterling instructed the driver, before turning his head slightly to look at Tessa through the dim cabin light. “Mr. Marquetti was impressed by your discretion tonight.”
“Discretion is part of being a good server,” Tessa said, keeping her voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in her veins.
“Discretion is keeping your mouth shut when you see a mob boss,” Sterling corrected gently. “What you did was something entirely different. You spoke his language without asking for permission.”
“My brother taught me that communication isn't a favor you grant people,” Tessa retorted, her chin lifting defiantly. “It’s a basic right. Just because Mr. Marquetti chooses not to speak doesn't mean he wants to be treated like a ghost.”
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Sterling stared at her for a long moment, a faint, surprised glint flashing in his cold eyes. Then, very slowly, a dry, humorless chuckle escaped his lips.
“Yeah,” Sterling muttered, turning back to look out the front windshield as the car glided smoothly through the rain. “I think you’re going to fit in just fine.”
