Left again.
There was no one in the hall and no one besides me on the stairs. The elevator showed all cars on the first floor except for one, which was on the sixth. I listened intently, but the only sound was the usual noise from the heating ducts.
Walking backwards a few steps, I kept my weapon raised as I made my way to Rinaldo’s office. It was empty, but there was sound coming from the back of the room near the rear door, which was closed. I’d never been through it but always thought it was just a personal room for Rinaldo in case he ever needed a shower or a nap.
With silent feet I moved to one side of the door. I was about to knock on it, but it started to open slowly before I got the chance. The first thing I saw was the barrel of a gun, and my hand flew up on instinct.
The gun flew into the air, landed on the desk, and then bounced to the ground again. I grabbed the wrist that had wielded the weapon, twisted it, and shoved the body it was attached to against the far side of the door.
Which is when I realized it was my boss.
“Shit!” I jumped back, released him, and tried to come up with something brilliant to say. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know–”
“Shut up,” Rinaldo said. He reached over and rubbed his shoulder and wrist a little before he retrieved his gun and shoved it into the holster concealed by his jacket. “You got here quick.”
“You said ten minutes,” I reminded him.
“That was more like four.”
“I figured ten was more of a maximum.”
He laughed.
“I always liked you, Evan.” Rinaldo clasped his hand on my shoulder as he started to say something else, but I heard the distinctive ring of the elevator.
“Sir,” I nodded towards the door.
“Can you cover this?” he asked quietly. I glanced at the monitors which displayed the view from the security cameras back in the corner of the office. There were four of them, Gavino Greco included.
Greco was a man I had met on only a few occasions yet knew extremely well. His family had been around for a long time – back to the Capone days – and he had a lot more support overall in the mob world than my employer. Rinaldo Moretti had only arrived in Chicago about twenty years ago but had made quite a name for himself in a relatively short amount of time. He came from a well respected crime family back in the old country, as they say.
“This is a problem, Arden,” Rinaldo said as the four men moved swiftly down the hallway.
“I’ve got it,” I replied, hoping I sounded confident.
I felt confident…for the most part.
I usually did.
Of course, a lot of that stemmed from truly not giving a shit if I lived or died. The worst thing that could happen would be disappointing Moretti. Considering there was likely only two ways out of this – winning or dying – I wasn’t too nervous. If I disappointed him, neither one of us was likely to be around long enough to regret it.
Rinaldo nodded, placed his trust in me, and sat down in his high-backed leather chair. He rotated his shoulders and adjusted his jacket before placing his folded hands on the desk in front of him. I took the place to his right, since it would be easier for me to cover him from that area, and stood at attention with my hands behind my back.
“Greco, my old friend!” Rinaldo said with an overly enthusiastic smile. “You are all the way across town, out of your territories, and unexpected. I hope you bring me good news!”
I resisted the urge to glance sideways at my boss to get a better understanding of his words, and decided my eyes were best kept on my opponents.
My targets.
My potential victims.
Of the three surrounding Greco, I only knew one. His name was Craig Flannigan, and he used to be a gun runner in one of the smaller operations before Greco wiped them out. Flannigan was thought to have been the informant amongst the gun runners that made the hit easy for Greco. He was tall, redheaded, and had a thick beard to match his thick Irish accent.
The other two were dark-haired and dark-eyed with big muscles bulging out of their tailored suits. They could very well have been twins, but one had a scar across his cheek, and the other had a mustache. They didn’t speak but flanked their boss closely with their hands placed near their shoulder holsters. These two were Italian-descended and likely related to Greco in some way. Flannigan would rat them all out if the money was right or his life depended on it, but not these two. They would give their lives for Greco if it was necessary.
Loyal men.
Flannigan stood directly in front of me, blocking his boss from the known hit man. It was defensive, and though it made sense on some level, it showed weakness. It put a man between me and my target, blocking him from me, yes – but also providing me with a shield if I needed it. Flannigan wasn’t even looking at me, so he obviously didn’t consider me a major threat – not when they had numbers on their side.