His father flinches. He hasn’t quite accustomed himself to the fact that Mikolaj Wilk, the Braterstwo boss, kidnapped and married his youngest daughter.

“Perhaps,” Fergus says stiffly.

“We’ll look at our options,” Papa says.

The meeting wraps up quickly.

As I’m driving Papa home, he says, “Catch your brother up on everything we talked about.”

Dante handles all the projects we already have in the works, while the rest of us are scheming to add more work to his plate.

I’ll summarize for Dante. And then I’ll ask him what he thinks about my idea for getting capital.

I’ve got no interest in trying to bring other investors on board. If we need money, we should get it the old-fashioned way—by stealing it.

As that cop reminded me, we are gangsters after all.

9

Camille

I wake up early so I can get as much work done as possible before I have to head over to my second job of being a degenerate drug dealer.

I’m so pissed about this I can barely concentrate. I’m supposed to swap out an oxygen sensor in an old Chevy, and it’s taking me twice as long as usual.

My dad is still sleeping. My worry about him is another rock added to the backpack of stress I’m carrying around all the time. If he doesn’t perk up in a day or two, I will physically drag him to the drop-in clinic. Even throw him over my shoulder if I have to, like that asshole Nero did to me.

I guess he did save me from a ticket, or worse.

But then he had to fuck with me after. There are no favors from Nero. He’s always a coin with two sides.

I’ve known him for years, from a distance. Well enough to know that falling for Nero Gallo is the most stupid, self-destructive thing I could possibly do.

Yes, he’s gorgeous. Yes, he smells like pure sex and sin. Yes, he can occasionally be the slightest bit helpful, when the whim catches him.

But he’s a black hole of selfishness. He eats up female attention with voracious appetite, and never, ever, gives anything in return.

Not to mention that every minute I spend around him is likely to land me in jail, one way or another.

I don’t need that. I’m doing a pretty good job of destroying my future all on my own.

Fuck, I’ve got to go get my car back, too. That means a pricey Uber ride, or a long-ass journey on public transit.

I finish up the Chevy so I can get going, then I change out of my coveralls. I’d rather wear my work clothes—that’s how I feel most comfortable. But I’ve got to make Levi take me seriously. I’ve got to get some kind of dirt on him, or else Schultz is never going to leave me alone.

I take the L and then a bus, and then I walk several blocks over to Lower Wacker Drive. My car is still there, thankfully in one piece, and thankfully parked in the shade so it’s had a chance to cool off. When I try the engine, it rumbles for a minute, then starts up. It’s not exactly running smooth, but it should get me over to Levi’s house.

I roll out cautiously, gathering speed once I’m sure it’s not going to blow up in my face. I head back over to Levi’s neglected Victorian on Hudson Ave.

The house looks even worse in the daytime. Trash and empty beer cans are scattered across his lawn. Also an overturned couch, and a hammock with somebody sleeping in it. Levi’s steps are sloped from the frost and melt of the Chicago seasons. The painted woodwork is so chipped that it looks like peeling skin.

I climb up on the porch, briskly rapping on the door. There’s a long wait, then a big Samoan dude cracks the door.

“Sup,” he grunts.

“I’m here to see Levi,” I say.

He stares at me a minute, then moves his bulk aside just enough for me to slip by.

The inside of the house has that musk of too many people sleeping over, and nobody washing the sheets. There’s at least five people in various states of consciousness in Levi’s living room. They’re sprawled out over the dusty old furniture that his grandmother must have bought in the 70s—long, low couches. Recliners in shades of mustard and puce.

The end tables are studded with beer bottles, ashtrays, and drug paraphernalia. The TV is playing, but nobody’s actually looking at it.

Levi himself is wearing a robe, open to show his bare chest. He’s got on striped boxer shorts and a pair of puffy slippers that look like bear paws. His slippered feet are propped up on the coffee table and he’s smoking a joint.

“My newest employee,” he announces to the room. “Everyone, this is Camille. Camille, this is everyone.”

I’m gonna need to get their actual names. I don’t think Schultz is going to be impressed with “everyone.”

I nod to the people who actually bother to look in my direction.

Levi takes a long pull off his roll-up. His eyes already look glassy and bloodshot.

“Here,” I say, tossing him a wad of cash—my earnings from the race. “That’s for the pills my brother lost.”

Levi nods to the burly Samoan, who picks up the money and stows it away.

“You get that from Bella?” Levi snickers.

“From her boyfriend,” I say.

“He’s not her boyfriend. He’s just fucking her,” Levi laughs.

“Who is he?” I ask.

“Grisha Lukin.”

“What kinda name is that?”

“Russian,” Levi says. His gaze sharpens slightly. “You’re kinda nosy, huh?”

“Not really.” I shrug. “I just thought I knew most people in Old Town. I’ve lived here forever.”

“Yeah, but you don’t ever come out of your little shop,” Levi laughs. “I don’t think I ever saw you drunk in high school even. Now you’ll get your fun, though.”

He holds out the joint to me.

“No thanks,” I say.

“I’m not asking,” he snaps. “Sit down.”

I sit down on the couch next to him, trying to keep space between us without making it too obvious. He shoves the joint in my hand.

I take a pitiful little puff. Even that makes me cough. The thick, skunky taste fills my mouth and my head spins. I don’t like pot. I don’t like being out of control of myself.

“There you go,” Levi laughs. “Now you can chill the fuck out.”

It does make me relax—physically, at least. I sink back in the cushions, feeling mildly dazed and in less of a rush to get out of here.

I recognize the girl on the other side of me. Her name is Ali Brown. She was three years ahead of me in school. Her parents own the flower shop on Sedgewick.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she replies.

She’s got straw-colored hair and freckles. She’s wearing a crop-top with no bra, and a pair of boy’s underpants with Superman logos all over them. She looks half asleep.

After a very long pause, she says, “I know you.”

“Yeah,” I say. “We both went to Oakmont.”

“No,” she says. “I saw your picture.”

She’s way more high than I thought. Still, to humor her, I say, “What picture?”

She pauses again, breathing shallowly. Then she says, “The one where you were eating ice cream on the pier.”