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I’M IN A BAD HEADSPACE while Fallon shuts me out, which I did to her often for the past month. I berate myself for ever questioning her, for letting alcohol sedate me. Fortunately, she’s not one to stay stuck in worries and I’m slowly breaking down her walls. Though it’s taking much longer than I’d prefer. I want to sleep in my bed with my wife, but deep down, I realize I deserve this and much more. I haven’t earned her devotion, yet I crave it. So I’ve listened to Adriano’s advice and I attempt to reel her back in by lavishing her with attention and affection.

After ending the call with Fallon, I catch myself smiling contently for the first time in a long while. I’m also happy that the remodel of the restaurant is proceeding without a hitch. I saunter to the end of the bar where there’s a newly installed black door and go through it into the state-of-the-art stainless steel kitchen. A few workers are putting the ventilation system in the ceiling, so I dip my chin to them before I notice a stack of menus on the counter. I snatch one up to take with me and exit since everything seems to be under control.

Then I see Adriano rushing down the stairs from the balconied second floor, shucking into his charcoal suit jacket. “Let’s go. John Rudd is having lunch at the country club.”

I weave through the tables and follow him out the door where we jump into his BMW, eager to talk with Rudd.

***

THE COUNTRY CLUB IS an elegant brown brick mansion with a valet at the front entrance that’s located right outside the Loop.

Adriano steps out and says to the valet, “I’ll be right back,” as we right our collars and button our suit jackets, looking as if we fit in here.

When a panicked look clouds the young man’s features, Adriano scowls at him, so he inches back and we stride forward through the sliding doors, passing the hostess standing behind a tall walnut podium.

Around a grin, Adriano tells her, “I have an appointment with John Rudd.”

“He’s sitting at the window, sir.” She motions toward the far end of the busy dining room where two middle-aged men are talking, and one rises to walk away.

Immediately, Adriano eats the distance to the table while Rudd looks out the window, which overlooks the perfectly trimmed green stretch of lawn, until our shadows fall over him when we reach the table. His head whips up and he stops chewing, swallowing heavily.

“Good afternoon,” Adriano speaks, pulling back a chair while I claim the seat opposite Rudd as he runs a hand through his silver hair, his wrinkled eyes narrowing.

As I laze back, Adriano sinks down and fishes out his Marlboro pack from the inside pocket of his jacket. He takes out a cig with his teeth and shakes his gold lighter from the pack as well. Then he places his smoke between his teeth and flicks open his lighter, bringing it up to the tip and lighting it as Rudd’s fork clanks on his plate.

“What do you want?” Rudd grinds out, surveying the room suspiciously as the hostess comes up to us.

“You can’t smoke in here, sir.”

Adriano blows a smoke ring, his grin darkening as he evaluates Rudd. “It’s just one smoke.” And he points his cig at him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Rudd steels his jaw, and I can practically see his heart beating through his expensive brown jacket. “No.” And he waits for the hostess to turn away before he addresses me, “What do you want?”

I take a flash drive from my pocket and toss it onto his plate among the steak and potatoes. “Since you’ve been wanting the footage so badly, we thought it would be nice to bring it to you.”

His lips thin. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not in the mood for games. You must wonder what happened to Tez. Hasn’t he been MIA since Sunday?”

“Monday,” Adriano corrects around a malicious smirk.

“Ah, yes, Monday.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “We ended him after he confessed that you’ve been threatening him for that recording.”

“And you’re just giving it to me? How do I know there aren’t any copies?”

Adriano chuckles. “No, no, we’re not here to help you. Of course there are copies. Actually, there are numerous copies, and one has been sent to the Chicago Tribune. Check your phone.”

“What?” he snarls, bewildered.

Getting out my mobile, I visit the website of the Chicago Tribune, which features a headline that’s just been put online by an associate we have on our payroll who’s a journalist. The headline reads John Rudd’s sex tape. I hold up the screen to face him, and his hand shoots forward, but I rear back.

“What the fuck did you do,” he hisses just as his phone starts ringing, one call after another.

I stand up. “Before you try to threaten any other people in my crew for that recording, I just released it. You fuck with me, then I ruin your life. Your career is over, your wife will probably leave you, and you’ll never be able to trace it to Club 7 because we’ve closed it down.”

All the blood drains from his face as he reads the article with details of his threesome involving a man.

Adriano stubs out his cigarette in Rudd’s steak and leans close as I walk away. “Court is over and you lost, Your Honor.” Then Adriano trails me out while several men avert their gazes, and he asks me, “Shall I drop you off at the Blackhall?”

I nod and roll my neck, my stress lessened since I’ve taken back the reins completely. Now all I want is to be home.