“If you think we’re gonna follow some broad—even if it is Nero’s darling little girl—you’re fuckin’ outta your mind.” Benny Pelegrin, in his crisp Versace suit, was an arrogant asshole, but for many years Daniella had called him Uncle and he’d hold her on his hip. Weddings, funerals, Sunday barbecues; she would seek him out and extend her little hands so he’d lift her and carry her.

She didn’t recognize him now, sitting slumped in a black leather chair with the cold rainy expanse of Chicago sky painted behind him in churning mottled grays. Now she was a young woman and the one she’d called her Uncle was a frightening old man with slicked back white hair and eyes like razors.

They were on the fortieth floor of the Empire Crest building, in a flat and lifeless, square-edged meeting room with a chrome and glass table, and leather furniture. The floors were hard marble, and the scornful male voices in here bounced around every right-angle surface until she heard, loud and clear, their message from every direction. They didn't want her.

Sitting at this table were eight men representing eight families. She’d presented to them her strategy moving forward in the aftermath of her father’s sudden unexpected death. They didn’t even listen. Eight men watched their clasped hands, checked their gleaming Rolex watches or their fingernails, one picked at the black fabric of his pant leg like he was preening himself. All their actions were transparent. They were sending a message. We will never listen to you.

“I am more than Nero’s ‘little girl’...” she said and she stood, tall in her heels, spread her manicured hands on the glass and leveled her eyes at them. “I know each and every one of you. Know all the good you’ve done...” she scanned the room, watched as she got their attention, “...know all the bad you’ve done. I know what’s in each of your hearts. I grew up with you. I grew up with your children. We’re family. We all want the same thing.” She winced. The pain was back and it brought with it a trickle of sweat that ran from her hairline and along past her ear to the corner of her jaw. The pain had lanced into her life a quarter hour ago. An urgent need to pee but it came with a painful exigency, like her bladder was filled with razors and turpentine. Then, as quickly as it came, it would subside.

She focused, looked at the gathered faces, all men she’d known her whole life. Roman LaRossa and Tony T; she’d see them once a week at dinners her dad held, she was best friends with their daughters, she was a bridesmaid at Tracy Tarulli’s wedding. Papa Joe Bitonti was associated in her mind very distinctly with three stuffed tigers he’d given her growing up, and she’d snuggled with them many nights right into her teens. Handsome Saturn Paradiso in his ten-thousand-dollar tailored suit; she and her girlfriends went out of their minds for Saturn Jr., once trying to cast a love spell at a sleepover at the Nero mansion using oregano and a lock of his hair liberated gleefully from the barber shop. Frank Bona was the one who brought her Vanessa Porkchop, her beloved Lhasa Apso. And Manny Tantalo got her in to see Alexei the Siberian Tiger at the Chicago zoo for her twelfth birthday. One on one with the trainer who was so sweet and helpful and let her throw the hunks of cold slaughtered meat to the cat. She even lay a hand on its muscular furred back. Later, she heard Manny had two guys hold the reluctant trainer over the edge of the enclosure til he changed his mind, but she never knew if that was true or not.

When her father was alive they would never have treated her like this. Old Nero was gone. She’d cried herself empty for her Papa. He’d left her his legacy, groomed her to rule. In his absence, the Old World attitudes prevailed. They would not listen to Nero’s daughter no matter what a great man he was.

“We all want success, happiness, wealth for all. We all love...” she winced, “...we all want what’s best for each other. When the tide rises, all our boats...” her belly was pierced once more, like a blade pushing and twisting. “All our boats will rise.”

That got an eye roll from Roman.

Twelve hours ago she was in Sedona. One half day ago she was seeking peace of mind in an ashram. She painted every day. She’d been blocked since her father died. She’d stare at a canvas and she would be so indecisive she would burst into tears. She’d had no breakthrough, but at least she had her hands moving brushes, moving paint over canvas, even if those hands were lost.

The sun was hot, the air was dry, and she put her mind to work on what this city needed now that Papa was gone. He’d groomed her. She was the sole heir. She knew how she would lead… She had a realization of peace. Her father had always said that his victories had come from having a clear head. Tempers bathed the streets in blood. She had a temper, she was her father’s daughter, but she wanted to build the empire, make it grander, make it safer for all. Profit and happiness, that was her sales pitch. She sought for it to grow, to be nourished, she wasn’t here to rule and crush like she was expected.

Now in the cold and the wet of March in Chicago, staring down the gleaming conference table at some of the nastiest men in the Midwest, she had no idea how she thought she would convince them. Sunshine and peace could play tricks with your mind.

Off the plane, from sun to snow, home to her apartment for a change of clothes, a visit to her mother in the Nero mansion, then a moment of preparation in her father’s office… Today’s meeting had massive implications. Meetings with all the heads of the family were uncommon. Getting them all together in one place brought serious logistics, and planning was a nightmare. Her father’s office phone had buzzed and she got the word that the meeting was here at the Empire Crest. They gathered, they broke bread together, everything was fine until the official business began.

Then they rejected her. Then her quisling bladder decided it had its own agenda. Soon as it was her time to speak her insides twisted in pain. The urge to urinate was like a wrench turning and turning on a bolt, the metal creaking and groaning, threatening to snap. She felt like she would burst, felt like it would give way—a dam breaking, her bladder spurting everything it had down the insides of her thighs in front of all these men. The embarrassment would be devastating, but right now, God, the relief would be cherished forever.

Now it surged again. An uncontrollable urge to pee, rising on a gargantuan swell within. A knot tightening. She’d flexed herself, squeezed every little girl muscle she had. Now the effort was showing on her face and she worried they were mistaking it for weakness. No, fuckers, I’m going to piss in my silk panties. A coppery tang rose on her tongue. A cramp twisted her low in her belly, demanding her attention, not taking No for an answer. Something was seriously wrong with her.

“And that, gentlemen, as you can plainly see is the best way for us to move forward. In fairness, in kindness. We are all on the same...hoo...”

Faces looked around, looking at each other, behind them to their armed guards. What’s wrong with this dopey broad?

She inhaled, wheezed to the room, “All right, with respect, I will let you discuss without discretion.”

Benny said, “There’s nothing to discuss, Daniella darling. We respect the family name, we respect Don Nero but, please, you have to understand. We will have to make other arrangements. The syndicate has been led by the Nero family for thirty years but your father never bore a son...” He let it hang like it meant something, shrugging and looking around at the approving nods of his compatriots. “Maybe he groomed you good, maybe he set you on a path to lead...but he was never meant to go so soon,” he said, looking to the halogen light ceiling, eyes aimed to the sky and God above. He crossed himself. “He’s gone too young,” he said to the nodding men, and they crossed themselves too. “Son or daughter, it don't matter to me...you said you was friends with our children and that’s what you are. You're a child, Daniella. You’re not fit to lead. And your ideas?” He made a pained face, his gnarly fingers on his right hand all brought to a wagging point. “They just ain’t how it’s done.”

She held them firm in her gaze, slowly let her eyes travel their faces, her head held at a confident orgulous angle while her bladder threatened to leap clear from her body. “Five minutes,” she said, managing grave authority in her tone.

She turned then from the table and nodded to her inherited sgarrista, Vito Nunzio. Vito the Jet, because he did so much work back in Sicily. He was her father’s henchman, his soldier, for the last four years, and now he was hers. He would escort her to the bathroom, and she would walk coolly and determinedly, and she would pray she would make it to the toilet in time.

* * *

This was the worst plan he’d ever had. His tremendous bulk was pressed into a tin can so tight he could barely breathe. His shoulders ached from being twisted up. Ached like his right ankle—his foot was twisted past ninety degrees. He’d settled in this plumbing access cabin, his weight gradually coming down to press against all the flex hoses and copper pipes. A sillcock wheel handle had squashed his balls, and his stomach had ached for an hour now. He still hadn’t moved.

It was a lot of money he’d been offered to kill one person. That’s what the hit’s broker thought it would take to pry his deadly abilities out of L.A.’s underbelly. He was an L.A. man now, ran with L.A. crews. Sunshine and palm trees, not snow and wind, and cold, silver skies. He didn’t think anything would make him come back to this city. When someone wires you one half of a half-million dollars they want to pay for a single hit—you make that trip. No matter the ache even the word Chicago might put in your heavy heart.

Plans were hasty, but hasty was why the price was high. Hasty was dangerous. These multi-family meetings were well-guarded. The locations were kept flexible. The families of the Nero Syndicate had three spots where they would convene, and the final decision was generally made about an hour before it took place to make sure unsavory outside interests were kept guessing. He had only an hour to plan his action.

The broker had provided few details. Rocco was chosen because he knew these men, knew the families, knew the locations. One target, name to be revealed when necessary. This was to be a grand and extravagant—and gruesome—message to the families. He was the man to deliver.

In a city ruled by eight powerful crime families they'd grown comfortable being unchallenged. Eight families woven into one syndicate and left unhindered to batten on Chicago’s festering, lascivious appetites had made them wealthy and powerful. But smug.

He knew their vulnerabilities four years ago. Returned to his former home he found those same vulnerabilities unchecked. They were exposed, and he would take advantage. The three possible meet locations had been chosen by him six years ago. He knew each one well because he had, at one time, guarded them. Each had a soft spot and he alone knew what they were. Finding liabilities and exposures had become a habit because they would invariably bear future fruit. Even four years later.

He chose a point in the triangulation of the three potential meets, parked himself in that secluded spot in the approximate center and waited. Each possible location had its own reveal. An event that would trip his alarm. A trigger. It was a phone call from outside the Zangara Fish Market on Halsted that put him in motion. A tip. Twelve pounds of seafood, one order. An equal portioning of shrimp, scallops, clams, mussels, and crab. The conclave was at the Empire Crest Building. Carmine Rossi was the chef that catered at the skyscraper meeting. His specialty, his known dish: A spicy, fresh Cioppino. A seafood stew he served with his homemade crusty bread.

Rocco had his destination then, and he’d raced on foot through the Gold Coast’s snowy streets. His phone had buzzed. The file showing him the target was sent by the broker. An attachment was opened. A name, written in code. Time broke, and a steely thread that laced slackly through his past was pulled taut and it scored like razor wire around his heart.

The coded message he’d read on his phone, standing dumbly in traffic while snow fluttered around him, had torn his heart to shreds. The name of his target was Daniella Nero.

Now he was packed into a hidden plumbing access cabin and the physical pain and discomfort paled to the tension riled by this mission’s sudden urgency. The importance of its outcome was measureless.

He’d had an hour to plan his action. An hour to plot the fate of the woman he once loved.

Who was the man who would order her death? Who could want such a precious creature dead? He couldn't be a man. He had to be the devil. An hour ago he had no name to the target. He could guess... Saturn Paradiso, Papa Joe, Tony T... Papa Nero was dead but Rocco would never in a million years have anticipated that Papa would have left his darling Daniella this powder keg.

The man who ordered her death, paid extravagantly for it, wanted her strangled. Up close and personal. Wanted it done in front of the other families. Done right under their noses. Wanted them to know he could get any one of them. When he took over he would rule them with fear.

No one ever knew he and Daniella were in love one time. He’d been Papa Nero’s guard and Chicago’s deadliest sgarrista. They kept their union a secret. He couldn’t harm the only woman he’d ever loved. He’d spent the time in this access cabin imagining what he would do to the man who ordered her death.

There was a click-clicking that came, high haunting sounds that traveled the copper pipes winding around his bound body. Daniella was coming. High heels on Italian marble. That sound raced his heart. She was close. This was the closest he’d been to the woman he loved in four years. His fingertips went cold.

It was time.

The door to the washroom opened, he felt the sound rather than heard it. With painstakingly careful movements he hitched open the thin metal door of the access cabin and the rushing smells of the kitchen came at him. A boot was extended out and placed quietly on the tile floor. He pulled the rest of his muscular bulk out into the pantry without making a sound.

The meeting at the Empire Crest took place in a suite of rooms. A conference hall, two private offices, a kitchen, a bathroom divided by sexes, a hallway and a vestibule. He stood now in the empty kitchen. Once the meeting began Chef Rossi and his crew would have been escorted off the premises. The room was cleaned and empty but still held the strong smell of Italian cooking.

He made his way to the door of the kitchen that led to the hall. On the other side of this door would be the two doors to the washroom, and standing guard would be that lanky skinhead, Vito Nunzio. Vito the Jet. Scumbag. Once fed a stewardess through the whining blades of a jumbo jet because her husband owed fifty Gs. That was bad enough, but he took such pride in his vicious act he was the one gave himself the nickname.

Rocco checked his weapons. In the back of his waistband, poking down towards his ass was his pistol. Held in the grip of his right hand was a wood handled hatchet. It was hard, heavy, and sharp. And when swung by a man who was six-four, two-eighty, you couldn't put anything in the way to block its destruction. He inhaled through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, his leather glove gripped the handle of the door loosely, and when he was ready he turned the lever and stepped into the hall with no hesitation. He’d worked it over in his head how it would all play out and now he put violence in motion. His boots tread the hall and four yards away Vito’s head popped up from his phone. His hand went for a pistol at his ribs. His face twisted with shock and anger. He hissed, “Rocco,” and the hatchet hammered him. Three times. The neck, the collar, and then over the top of his head. He died on the floor with his hand still inside his leather jacket, clutched on a pistol he never got out of its holster.