Chapter 4 - The Drive Through the Rain
The South Side at nine o'clock on a Tuesday night looked like a monochrome movie shot through a dirty lens. Streetlights flickered and hissed against the driving rain, casting long, bruised shadows across abandoned brick warehouses and rusted chain-link fences.
The Cadillac slowed to a crawl as it turned down Fourth Street.
It was a narrow, forgotten corridor squeezed between an active freight line and a row of decaying Victorian brownstones that had long since lost their grandeur. Most of the windows on the block were dark, boarded up with sheets of weathered plywood by landlords waiting for demolition crews.
Except for one building.
Mid-block, a faded wooden sign hung crookedly over a grease-stained brick storefront: Elena’s Tailoring & Alterations.
A single yellow bulb burned inside the front window, illuminating rows of hanging garments, spools of colored thread scattered across the floor, and a shattered glass door whose jagged frame gaped open like an unhealed wound.
Parked carelessly across the sidewalk right in front of the shop were two unmarked dark sedans, their hazard lights blinking a dull, rhythmic orange against the pouring rain.
“They’re still inside,” Sal murmured from the front seat of the lead car, sliding a heavy suppressor onto the barrel of his pistol with a soft, metallic click.
Vincent didn't reach for a weapon. He never carried iron in public; that was what men like Tony and Sal were for. Instead, he reached over and gently placed a hand on Lily’s shoulder.
“Stay in the car, Lily,” Vincent instructed, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Lock the doors from the inside. Tony will stay with you. Do not open this door for anyone except me.”
Lily clutched the cashmere coat tighter around herself, her eyes wide with terror. “Are you going to save my mama?”
“I am,” Vincent said simply.
He pushed the heavy armored door open and stepped out into the freezing Chicago rain.
The water hit his tailored black suit instantly, plastering his iron-gray hair to his skull, but Vincent didn't flinch. He adjusted his cuffs, stepped off the curb, and walked toward the shattered storefront with the unhurried, terrifying calm of a man walking through his own living room.
Behind him, the doors of the two trailing sedans clicked open simultaneously. Four men stepped out into the downpour, weapons drawn, falling into a silent, practiced wedge behind their boss.
They didn't make a sound as they crossed the sidewalk. The rain seemed to swallow their footsteps, leaving only the steady hum of the idling Escalade behind them.
Vincent reached the broken glass doorway of the tailoring shop. He stepped over a shattered pane of safety glass, his leather shoes crunching softly on the debris, and entered the dim, warm interior of the shop.
The air inside smelled sharply of copper, stale cigarette smoke, and spilled gin.
From the back hallway leading to the residential stairs, the sound of rough, laughing voices drifted out into the quiet shop.
“...old bint wouldn't sign the transfer papers even after I put the iron to her fingers,” a harsh, gravelly voice sneered. “Lowell’s gonna be pissed we had to rough her up this much, but hey—she asked for it.”
Another voice chuckled, wet and obnoxious. “Stupid broad thought the city preservation board was going to save her. Grab that sewing machine off the counter, let’s pack up before the cops—or worse, Torino’s tax collectors—start sniffing around the block.”
Vincent stopped beside a row of hanging winter coats. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't draw a weapon.
He simply spoke into the empty air of the shop.
May you like
“There are no cops coming tonight,” Vincent said.
The laughter in the back hallway stopped instantly.
