“Get me downtown,” I tell the driver when his eyes flicker up to the rear view mirror.
“Address?”
“Ummm, Violet Hotel,” I say quickly, naming the only Mafia-free bar I can think of in the entire city of Chicago.
It's a corporate hotel, kind of swanky. I should be able to drown myself in $20 martinis for a couple of hours before somebody comes looking for me. They always eventually come looking for me.
Such a good girl. Yeah, that's me. The virgin martyr of the Lauro family. Well, at least not virgin. Not after tonight. I've made up my mind, it’s time to toss this V card into the wind.
CHAPTER 3
ROMAN
The best kills are up close and personal. I can do this from any distance, but I prefer to be close enough that my target knows what's happening. Not right away, not like I want to be chasing the guy down the middle of the street or anything. But close enough where there’s a split second where we really understand each other. He knows what’s going to happen, and I know that he knows. We connect.
But some guys are squirrely, where they think they're gonna run and then I end up having to run up behind them and follow them into a playground or some bullshit like that. That's not how I like to do things.
I like a nice, controlled situation. I make the effort to have things neat and tidy. No messes, no big dramatic scene. Just something understated like blowing out a candle.
It’s an art. For anybody who’s really looking, the elegance should be obvious. But naturally, nobody is looking. People can’t see what’s in front of them until it’s too late. People are simple. Stupid. Everybody thinks they’re a fucking genius and that's what makes them idiots.
So this greased up piece of garbage in front of me, I'm just going to tail him until I can get to where he sees me coming. When it's already too late. I can take it easy, wait for my moment. It's not like I'm going to lose him, even though there's a lot of people around. The sun is going down and we have all the time in the world.
He's just walking down the street, calm as you like. It's easy for me to keep my eye on him because the reflection off his hair is so bright it's like a spotlight. I just need to keep my eye on that glimmer and follow him maybe twenty feet behind until we can take this somewhere private.
It's nice he made it so obvious for me too, because Chicago is nothing like Atlanta. It's hot as fuck, sure, but everything is so tightly packed here it's easy to feel boxed in.
The way they have all of these neighborhoods arranged: the Italian neighborhood, the Cop neighborhood, the Lithuanian neighborhood… I mean, it's nice to know where you are, where your people are, but everything is so matchy-matchy that it's easy to get lost from street to street.
Every part of the Italian neighborhood looks exactly the same, and looks just like the Swedes and the Poles and everybody else. Greystone building after greystone building, brick bungalow after brick bungalow. A subway station at the corner, though I am told they call it the “L” train here. Cell phone stores and dingy bars.
I'll get used to it. I'm just saying it's different than Atlanta. But it's all right here. I like a little variety, a little taste of this and that.
Besides, I just do what they tell me. Like they told me to move to this Midwestern cesspool and so I did. They tell me to take out this Italian piece of shit and I'm going to.
This greasy fuck turns another corner, and I just keep on going right behind him. Looks like we’re headed toward the financial district. I'm not sure why he's walking. Usually these guys don't like to risk scuffing up their pretty shoes. Not like me. I'll run barefoot over broken glass if I have to. Whatever it takes to get the job done.
He must think he's some kind of genius if he's just out here, strolling down the street like he owns the place. Like there's not a target on his head. Jesus, these Italian fucks can be so arrogant.
You know what smart is? Smart is keeping your head down. Being quiet. Keeping under the radar. Not announcing your business to every donkey that walks by. That's smart. Pop your head out of the hole and it might just get chopped off.
This guy is not smart. He stops for a second to look at his reflection in a dark window glass. I slow down but I don't stop, just give him some room. If he stands there staring at himself too long I’ll cross the street. I see him smile at himself in the glass. He pushes his hair back with his open hand even though his hair hasn't moved a millimeter.
My thumb automatically moves to the cellphone in my pocket and I pull it to my ear, pivoting away so I only see the peacock out of the corner of my eye.
“Hey,” comes Alek’s voice on the other end.
I just grunt. He knows I’m not really calling to chat.