Chapter 1 - The Flame in the Rain
My bakery door flew open just as twelve armed men trapped Chicago’s most feared mafia boss in a dead-end alley, certain they were about to execute him.
They laughed when a flour-covered woman in a pink apron stepped between them and their target.
Nothing about me looked dangerous.
I was thirty-two years old, five feet six on a generous day, and built like an ordinary woman who spent more time lifting bread trays than barbells. My blonde hair was tied in a loose ponytail. Flour covered my white shirt, and pink frosting stained one side of my apron.
To those men, I was harmless.
That was their first mistake.
The night had started like every other Tuesday at Russo’s Bread & Butter. Cold rain struck the windows while I stood alone in the kitchen, pulling sourdough from the ovens and preparing trays for the morning rush.
My father had gone to Milwaukee to visit my aunt. My two employees had left hours earlier. I was supposed to finish the final batch, clean the counters, and be home before midnight.
Instead, at eleven forty-three, I heard shouting behind the building.
Not drunken shouting.
Not an argument between delivery drivers.
This was controlled, vicious, and frighteningly calm.
“End of the line, Vincent.”
I froze with a bread tray in my hands.
A second voice answered, low and steady.
“If you need twelve men to kill one wounded man, Caleb, I wouldn’t call this a victory.”
Then came the unmistakable click of several weapons being readied.
I put down the tray.
Every reasonable instinct told me to lock the door, call the police, and hide in the office.
But my father had taught me that when something terrible happened close enough for you to hear it, pretending ignorance did not make you innocent.
I took my phone, slipped an old Zippo lighter into my apron pocket, and pushed open the steel back door.
Cold rain hit my face.
A black sedan had crashed into several wooden pallets near the alley entrance. Steam rose from its damaged hood. Fuel leaked beneath the vehicle, spreading through the rainwater in a thin, shimmering stream.
At the far end of the alley stood an injured man in a blood-soaked charcoal suit.
One hand pressed against the brick wall. His right leg was wounded, and blood ran into his polished shoe. Despite that, he held himself upright, his chin lifted as twelve armed men formed a half circle around him.
Their leader had pale blond hair and a scar beside his mouth. His pistol was aimed at the injured man’s chest.
Only when the wounded stranger turned slightly did I recognize him.
Vincent Costello.
Everybody on the South Side knew that name.
Some said he controlled the docks, the trucking unions, and half the private clubs in Chicago. Others said he had ended wars before the police even realized they had begun.
Parents warned their children never to stare at him.
Politicians pretended not to know him.
Business owners spoke his name quietly, as if saying it too loudly might summon him.
The blond man smiled.
“So this is how the great Vincent Costello dies.”
Vincent’s expression did not change.
“You’ve always confused noise with power, Caleb.”
Caleb Rourke lifted the gun another inch.
“Any last words?”
I stepped down from the doorway.
The sound of my sneaker striking the wet pavement turned every head.
Twelve weapons swung toward me.
One man laughed when he saw the pink apron.
“Go back inside, sweetheart.”
I looked at him, then at the guns, then at Vincent.
“I’m trying to close my bakery,” I said. “You’re blocking the delivery entrance.”
Several men laughed.
Rourke stared at me as though I were an insect that had interrupted an important meal.
“Lady, you walked into something you don’t understand.”
“I understand there are twelve men with guns standing behind my bakery.”
“Then you understand why you should leave.”
“I also understand your damaged car is leaking fuel.”
His eyes flicked toward the sedan.
Only for a second.
It was enough to tell me he had not noticed.
Vincent had.
Our gazes met.
He did not ask me to help. He did not shake his head or warn me away.
He simply looked at my apron pocket, then at the dark stream moving through the rainwater.
Complete understanding passed between us.
Rourke noticed.
“You two know each other?”
“Never met him,” I said.
Vincent’s mouth moved faintly.
“Her customer service could use improvement.”
Rourke turned his weapon toward me.
“You think this is funny?”
“No,” I answered. “I think you talk too much.”
The laughter stopped.
His scar tightened.
“What’s your name?”
“Rosa Russo.”
“The baker?”
“I own the bakery.”
“I’ve eaten your cannoli.”
“Then this is disappointing. I hate losing customers.”
One of his men snorted.
Rourke shot him a look, then returned his attention to me.
“Go inside, Rosa.”
“What happens if I don’t?”
“You become an unfortunate witness.”
“Is that your polite way of saying you’ll kill me?”
“It’s the only warning you’ll get.”
My fingers closed around the lighter inside my pocket.
Vincent shifted his injured leg half an inch.
He was ready.
I shrugged.
“All right.”
Rourke looked almost disappointed.
I turned toward the bakery.
Then I pulled out the Zippo, struck the wheel, and dropped it into the fuel.
“Move!” I shouted.
Vincent threw himself behind a steel dumpster.
Flame raced across the pavement.
A wall of fire rose between him and the gunmen.
The explosion was smaller than it sounded, but the flash and heat sent Rourke’s men stumbling backward. One fired into the air. Another fell over a wooden crate.
I ran through the edge of the smoke.
Vincent tried to stand, but his injured leg collapsed beneath him.
I grabbed his arm and pulled it across my shoulders.
He was nearly a foot taller than me and much heavier.
“I can walk,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You’re lying.”
“A habit I usually perform more convincingly.”
A bullet struck the wall beside my head.
I flinched but kept moving.
Vincent drew a compact pistol from beneath his jacket.
“You had a gun?” I demanded.
“Would it have changed your plan?”
“No.”
“Then the information was unnecessary.”
He fired twice toward a stack of crates.
The shots forced two men back into cover.
I dragged him toward the bakery door.
Rourke shouted through the smoke.
“Get around the fire! Don’t let Costello leave!”
We reached the doorway.
Vincent braced one hand against the frame.
“You should run.”
“This is my building.”
“They’ll come inside.”
“Then they’ll learn why my father bought a steel door.”
We stumbled into the kitchen.
I slammed the door and threw the deadbolt. A bullet struck the outside with a metallic crack.
Vincent leaned against a prep table.
Blood immediately dripped onto the tile.
“You need a hospital,” I said.
“No hospitals.”
“You were shot.”
“I had noticed.”
“Sit down.”
“I need to contact my people.”
“You need to stop bleeding on my floor.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Do you always give orders to armed men?”
“Only when they’re ruining the kitchen.”
Another bullet struck the door.
I pushed a heavy flour bin against it, then moved to Vincent.
Up close, he looked less like a legend and more like a man trying not to pass out.
His dark hair was wet. Blood streaked one side of his face, and pain tightened his jaw.
Still, his eyes remained sharp.
“You’re not frightened enough,” he said.
“I’m terrified.”
“You hide it well.”
“I run a bakery. I’ve dealt with brides whose wedding cakes arrived the wrong shade of ivory.”
He almost smiled.
I tore open a clean kitchen towel and pressed it to his leg.
His hand caught my wrist.
“I need to leave.”
“You can’t stand.”
“My men will come.”
“So will Rourke’s.”
The front window shattered.
We both turned.
Boots struck the dining-room floor.
Vincent lowered his voice.
“Is there another exit?”
“Basement.”
“Does it connect to the street?”
“There’s an old delivery tunnel.”
His stare sharpened.
“You have a tunnel?”
“The building was used for illegal liquor storage during Prohibition.”
“Your bakery has hidden rooms?”
“My grandfather valued privacy and poor decisions.”
Vincent shifted his weight.
Pain crossed his face.
I moved under his arm again.
“Come on.”
We passed rows of cooling bread as men entered the dining area.
One called out, “Rosa, don’t make this harder.”
I stopped.
Vincent looked at me.
“They know your name now,” he whispered.
“That became clear when he used it.”
“You have family?”
“My father.”
“Where is he?”
“Milwaukee.”
“Call him. Tell him not to return.”
The seriousness in his voice made my stomach twist.
“You think they’ll go after him?”
“Rourke uses families.”
I pulled out my phone while guiding Vincent down the basement stairs.
My father answered sleepily.
“Rosa?”
“Dad, stay with Aunt Maria tomorrow.”
“What happened?”
“A pipe burst.”
“At midnight?”
“Big pipe.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Please, Dad.”
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
“Are you in danger?”
I looked at Vincent.
“Yes.”
“Call the police.”
“I’m not sure that’s safe.”
“Rosa—”
“Promise me you won’t come home.”
Another crash sounded above us.
“Rosa, what is happening?”
“I’ll explain when I can.”
“I’m driving back.”
“No!”
My voice echoed through the basement.
Vincent looked at me.
I forced myself to speak calmly.
“If you come back, I won’t be able to focus. Stay there until I call.”
My father breathed heavily into the phone.
“Your mother used to use that tone.”
“She was usually right.”
“She was always right.”
“Please.”
“All right. But you call me in one hour.”
“I will.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
I ended the call before he could ask anything else.
Vincent nodded toward the rear shelves.
“The tunnel?”
I pulled aside a rolling rack.
Behind it stood an old wooden door.
“You first,” I said.
“You should go ahead.”
“You have the gun.”
“You have the lighter.”
“Not anymore.”
“Then you’re losing your advantage.”
Despite everything, I laughed once.
We entered the narrow passage.
The tunnel ran beneath two buildings and opened into the storage room of a laundromat. My father and the laundromat owner had discovered it during renovations and agreed never to tell the city inspector.
Halfway through, Vincent stumbled.
I caught him against the wall.
His breathing was shallow.
“Stay awake,” I said.
“I’m awake.”
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“Where are we?”
“Inside an illegal tunnel beneath a bakery.”
“Who am I?”
“The woman who destroyed a perfectly good suit.”
“Good. You’re conscious.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Why did you help me?”
“You were about to be murdered.”
“You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“I knew what they were doing.”
“That was enough?”
“It had to be.”
He looked away.
We reached the laundromat storage room.
A tall man in a dark coat entered through the side door with his gun raised.
Vincent lifted his weapon.
The newcomer stopped.
“It’s me,” he said.
Vincent lowered his pistol.
“Dominic.”
Dominic Bellini had silver at his temples and the controlled expression of someone accustomed to bad news.
He looked at Vincent’s wound, then at me.
“Who is she?”
Vincent leaned harder against the wall.
“The reason I’m still alive.”
Dominic looked through the window toward the rising smoke.
“She did that?”
“I was trying to close my bakery,” I said.
Dominic’s eyebrows rose.
Vincent almost smiled again.
Then Dominic’s phone rang.
He answered.
Whatever he heard drained the color from his face.
Vincent noticed.
“What happened?”
Dominic lowered the phone.
“They took Elena.”
Vincent went completely still.
“Who?”
“Rourke’s second team. They grabbed her outside her apartment.”
Vincent’s hand closed around his pistol.
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Where are they taking her?”
“Pier Nineteen. Rourke wants the ledger before dawn.”
I had seen fear in customers before.
Fear of bad medical results.
Fear of losing a business.
Fear of telling someone a marriage was over.
But the fear in Vincent Costello’s eyes was different.
It was silent and absolute.
“I’m going,” he said.
Dominic blocked the door.
“It’s a trap.”
“I know.”
“You’ll die.”
“I know.”
“You can barely stand.”
Vincent’s voice became cold.
“Move.”
I opened the laundromat’s first-aid kit.
Both men looked at me.
“What are you doing?” Vincent asked.
“Stopping the bleeding.”
“You’re finished helping.”
“No.”
“This is not your fight.”
I knelt beside his wounded leg.
“Rourke brought twelve armed men behind my bakery, shot up my building, threatened my father, and kidnapped a woman because she matters to you.”
May you like
I wrapped a clean bandage firmly around the wound.
“He made it my fight.”
