Part 1: The Turning Handle

The air inside the abandoned warehouse at Pier 42 was freezing, thick with the smell of iron and lake water.

A long mahogany table had been set up in the center of the concrete floor, illuminated by a single industrial spotlight hanging from the rafters.

On one side sat Johnny Caruso, seventy years old, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat, surrounded by six of his top capos.

On the other side sat my father.

And right in the center, at the head of the table, sat me.

I was wearing a black silk suit that hid the medical brace around my ribs, my hand resting casually on the silver handle of my cane.

Evan was kneeling on the concrete three feet behind Johnny Caruso’s chair, his face unrecognisable from the swelling, his hands zip-tied behind his back.

He looked at me with a pathetic, whimpering desperation, begging with his eyes for a mercy he had never shown me.

— Marcus, Johnny Caruso began, his voice rough from decades of cigars. The boy was stupid. He thought he could play in the big leagues without asking permission. We’re willing to pay five million to settle the property damage and the... incident with your daughter.

The capos behind him nodded, their hands tucked inside their overcoats.

I tapped my cane against the concrete floor.

The sharp sound echoed like a gunshot through the rafters.

— The incident has a name, Mr. Caruso, I said, my voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls. My name is Claire. And my ribs are worth more than your entire liquid asset portfolio.

Johnny Caruso’s eyes narrowed, his old-school arrogance flaring up.

— I’m talking to your father, girl. In our world, the men settle the ledger.

My father didn't move a muscle. He simply leaned back into his chair and checked his watch.

— In my world, Johnny, my father said smoothly, whoever bleeds gets to decide who dies. I’m just the enforcement.

The six capos stepped forward, their hands moving toward their holsters, but before their fingers could touch leather, forty red laser dots appeared simultaneously across their chests.

My father’s men were hanging from the catwalks above, their rifles completely silent, completely locked onto their targets.

The warehouse went dead quiet.

I stood up from the head of the table, walking slowly toward Evan, the click of my cane the only sound in the massive room.

He flinched as I stopped in front of him, looking down at his bruised, trembling form.

— You told me to reflect, Evan, I whispered, leaning down until he could see the absolute absence of fear in my eyes. So I did.

I pulled his family signet ring from my pocket and dropped it onto the concrete floor in front of his face.

— I reflected on the fact that you married me for leverage, I said. And I reflected on the fact that your mistress thought she could smile at me in a restaurant.

I looked up at Johnny Caruso, whose face had gone completely grey as he realized his empire was outnumbered and outgunned.

— The Caruso family leaves Chicago by sunrise, I ordered, my voice ringing with the absolute authority of the Vance name. You leave the warehouses. You leave the routes. And you leave the garbage you hired to spy on us.

Johnny Caruso looked at his men, then at the lasers on his chest, and finally nodded once, his jaw tight.

— We leave, he croaked.

They turned and walked out into the dark, leaving Evan alone on the floor, his breathing coming in the same shallow, jagged pieces he had forced upon me in the hallway.

He looked up at me, his lip bleeding onto the concrete.

— Claire... please... we’re family.

I turned my back on him, walking toward my father’s waiting car at the end of the pier.

— The family died in the basement, Evan, I said without looking back.

As the heavy iron doors of the warehouse closed, cutting off his cries, the first light of dawn began to break over Lake Michigan.