“Into justice,” Moretti corrects. “His ‘diplomat’ games have choked my territory, my business… he killed my cousin.” His face darkens. “And he killed your father.”
He moves to the briefcase, opens it, and removes a manila folder. “The proof. As promised.”
My legs carry me forward. I take it from his hand, the weight the only real thing in the world. I open it.
Years of uncertainty collapse.
A police report: brake lines professionally severed. A witness statement from a mechanic, paid to tamper with the vehicle, naming Nicolás Varela as the one who gave the order. Financial records showing payment from one of Nico’s shell companies to the mechanic, dated three days before the “accident.”
And last, a surveillance photo of my father meeting a federal informant. On the back, in Nico’s distinctive script:G. Song. Liability. Handle permanently.
The words blur. My father’s death warrant. The folder falls from my numb fingers; the papers scatter like dead leaves. The room tilts, the single harsh light swinging in my vision. Isabel’s hand is at my elbow, steadying me, guiding me to a chair.
“I know it’s a lot,” she says softly. “But now you know. Now you can make him pay.”
I look up at them—monsters, no different from Nico. But their purpose now aligns with mine.
“What do you want from me?” My voice sounds distant, empty.
Moretti pulls a chair around and sits across from me. “We need you to call Nico. Convince him you were kidnapped and are being held here. At this mill.”
“And then?”
“And then,” Isabel takes over, crouching beside me, “you will guide him into this location. A final confrontation. Where justice will be served.”
“You mean where you’ll kill him,” I say.
Neither denies it. Moretti just nods. “It’s how our world works, Ms. Song. The old king falls.”
I should be horrified. But the proof is at my feet. The truth I’ve sought for six years. My father, murdered on Nico’s orders.
The war inside me ends. Not with a bang, but with a sudden, terrifying calm. The confusion, the doubt, the forbidden warmth I’d started to feel for Nico—all of it incinerated, leaving only the clean, hard certainty of hate.
“I’ll do it,” I say. The words feeling like giving someone a death sentence.
Moretti nods, satisfied. “I’ll give the two of you a moment. I need to check on my men.” He disappears through a back doorway, leaving me with Isabel.
As the door closes, her demeanor shifts. She pulls her chair closer, her knee brushing mine. “Moretti talks about money andturf,” she says, her voice low. “I’m offering something better, Lea. A life. With me.”
I stare at her, my mind struggling to shift gears from murder plots to… whatever this is. Her hand covers mine. It’s soft, but with the calloused edges of someone who knows how to use a weapon.
“Picture it. You and I are running this city. Equal partners. Queens of Chicago.” She moves closer. “No one could touch us.”
I search her face for the con, but I find raw hunger and something that might be genuine if you squint.
“You’re a stranger,” I point out.
Her smile spreads. “Oh, but I know what you’re capable of. And when this gets messy—and it will—you’ll need someone who understands. Someone who won’t run when they see what you’ve become.”
She’s right, and I hate her for it. Once I do this, my old life is over. Goodbye, crusading reporter. That girl died the second I signed on for murder.
I stare at our linked hands, then at the scattered evidence of my father’s murder. The path forward is no longer a maze. It’s a straight line, and it ends with payback.
“Break it down for me,” I say, locking eyes with Isabel. “How do we kill Nicolás Varela?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
NICO
