I didn’t need to stop at Tony’s.

  I saw the police cars from a distance, and I knew someone was dead. No way there would be four police units and ambulances outside Tony’s if he was alive.

  There were a lot of police cars, marked and unmarked. Ambulances and every uniform possible. Police, paramedics, firemen and god know what else. Well, news people, but I don’t think God has anything to with those.

  There wasn’t a network in the country that had missed sending a news van to Chicago and now they were scenting blood. There were news agencies from at least a dozen different stations. Lamps, cameras, perky news women, old news men. Funny thing that, news people. They seemed to be either good looking women, either well trained or decorative, or old geezers from before the WWII. Like 60 minutes - a geriatric ward news desk.

  I drove by at slow speed and what little I saw turned my stomach.

  There was blood on the floor, blood splatter – buckets of it – on the windows, and all over Tony’s counter. I couldn’t believe how much blood was spilled. No one could have survived that.

  It looked like someone had spay-painted the window beside the counter and I noticed the bullet holes. That bothered me, because Tony wasn’t a gun-guy. He had one, but for him to use it things must have really gone bad.

  Well, duh, I thought to myself. There was blood everywhere; of course it had been bad. But why had they let him get the gun? He kept it in a drawer where it was hard to get at. The only thing he had fast access to was his baseball bat. He could do things with that bat that defied description, and he was no slob in hand-to-hand either. Not that it had helped him. Someone had still painted his shop with his blood.

  It was like looking thought a filter of some kind. My emotions just blanked-out as I took it all in. The cops, the medics and the blood.

  There was so much blood. Damn it all to hell!

  I saw Wilson standing inside talking to some other plain-clothes Detective. If I had to choose one cop to handle Tony’s murder, it would be Wilson. That man never gave up. It didn’t matter if the sun suddenly went out, Wilson would continue to try and solve the case. Stubborn bastard, which had its upsides and downsides. I didn’t even care that he would make my life hell in the process.

  I felt tears stung my eyes. My vision seemed to shrink down to a narrow tunnel ahead, and I got this sick feeling to my stomach. I was going to kill them! No matter that they were after me, I was going to skin the bastards alive! They were going to pay!

  Tears flowed freely as I drove mindlessly around. Racking sobs and sorrow almost like physical pain hit me as I parked the car in an alley several blocks away from my hidey hole. I didn’t know how long I had been crying and I didn’t care. There was so much I wished I had done otherwise and so many things I wished I had never done. I wondered how Mi and Tony’s sons were doing. I wondered if they knew yet. Tony’s family might declare feud on these people. It wasn’t like Tony’s father lacked the connections for it.

  Black hatred and sadness fought for release. I stared into the dark alley, almost hoping that someone would be dumb enough to jump me, but whatever lowlifes who were hiding close by, they left me alone.

  Smart choice.

  I caught myself staring straight into the darkness with an absolutely blank mind. I realized that I must have stood there for a good ten minutes and I couldn’t remember what I had thought about – or even if I had thought about anything at all.

  The hatred welled up inside me again.

  The guilt was and rage threatened to consume me and I shook in anger as the images of the blood-splattered floor came back to me. It was my fault! Tony was dead because of me, and there was nothing I could do to set it right. There was only revenge left.

  Stupid word that – revenge. It wasn’t even close to what I wanted to do them. I wanted them to burn in hell. I wanted them to feel the pain that Tony had felt a thousand times. A million times!

  I realized that I was crying again.

  I took out my phone and switched the sim-card. I called the Nardi residence, but not the number series I had called before, because I needed a favor. It was Silvio Nardi I wanted to talk to, not Bernard.

  “Nardi’s residence,” a voice answered.

  I remembered that voice. “Mona? That you?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Maria Smith, Mona. I need to talk to Silvio,” I said quietly.

  There was a hushed silence in the other end. “I’m not sure…”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “If it helps, say I referred to his friendship with my fathers. I must talk to him now. I can’t say if I’ll be alive in an hour.”

  “What happened?” Mona asked in a shaken voice. “I knew you were on the run, but I never…”

  I sighed. “Never mind, Mona. It’s a mess, but if I live through it I promise I’ll tell you the story. Can you please find Silvio?”

  “Okay…” Mona still sounded unsure, but I heard her lay down the phone and walk away.

  Mona Johnson, was a full-blooded Italian. And her last name was the Family name. Not often you hear Johnson as a mob name, but it was changed in the thirties from Giovanni to Johnson. It made them less conspicuous in those days. Nowadays, only Alfred Johnson, the head of the Johnson family, gave a damn.

  Mona had been a sweet and kind girl when I met her. Sweet and kind with a temper like an active volcano. Always boiling just below the surface, waiting to erupt. She looked like a Puerto Rican girl but had a tinge of red in her dark brown hair. The thing I found most upsetting about her was that she was as straight as they come.

  One thing I really hated about the mob was their damn homophobia. Most of them was okay with torture or murder but mention that you were a lesbian and some would go batshit. Okay, some were accepting, but my guess was that fewer were open-minded than among the normals. Unless you were rich or famous, that is. If you’re rich enough, you can buy all sorts of things. Justice, life, beauty, ethics, morals, death. All is for sale, if you know here to shop.

  And I damn well knew where to shop for death!

  “Yes.” Silvio’s voice was smooth, but I detected anger underneath. I had annoyed him, and that was not good.

  “I apologize for my untimely call, sir, but since I might be dead in an hour or two, I shamelessly capitalized on your friendship with my fathers to give you information and ask a favor. For that I apologize!”

  “I will hear you out, Maria, but I will not interfere with those hunting you!” There was steel in that voice. Cold razor-sharp steel, ready to cut your throat if you are insolent or reckless.

  “I understand, but that is not why I called. The ones holding my contract have drawn unnecessary attention to themselves by making a very public and very spectacular number on a bystander. They have tied this contract to the big Chicago case that is national news, and there will be severe repercussions for all associates in Illinois. That is the information I have.”

  “How bad?” Silvio Nardi asked quietly.

  “Really bad. You might have to shut down non-essential operations for three months or so. Maybe longer, depending on how successful the cops are with the other case.”

  There was a humming in the other end. He didn’t sound pleased. Not at all. “Well, Maria…I assume this is what Johnny-Boy was talking about?”

  “Uh-huh, but that’s not all, sir, because they have killed a bystander whose father isn’t without connections there may be revenge or blood-money to pay. His father is Vietnamese and well connected among Asian syndicates. I do not say this so that you or anyone else should cancel the contract, but so that you know where the blame should go when everything starts to fly.”

  “Protection?” Silvio asked.

  “Paid and bargained for with the locals, but I can’t say which syndicate. They were professionals though and they knew both to play hardball and to be more subtle. They were not anyone I recognized and had no other distinguishing features that I could see. You won’t have any problem in getting the family name.” I sighed. “You’ll find that name easily enough. It will be all over the news by now.”

  “I will see to this. I will contact the family and speak with them and see how we can correct this. It won’t be blood for blood, Maria, because they won’t stand for that and we can’t enforce it over a bystander, unless…unless the father has the right connections. Just so you know, Maria. Now…what favor would you ask for?” Silvio’s voice was calm again. More…normal so to speak.

  “But they will pay for it?” I asked. It generally not a good thing to push one of the most powerful capos around, but I needed to know.

  “Yes, they will pay. And yes it will really set them back, so this may hurt them more than anything else you could have come up with. Now, the favor!” Angering Silvio wasn’t smart, but I needed to hear that they would pay for the death of my friend. And that would cost them.

  “If I don’t survive, I want to put out a one hundred grand contract on Mike Sunderland and twenty-five grand each for Frederick, Smiley, and John. Open contracts, posted with Arizona, and never retractable. If I live, I will hunt them down myself, but if I die I want to make sure the go to hell with me!” I spat out the last sentence.

  “And I can’t talk you out of it?” Silvio asked calmly.

  “No,” I answered without anger. He would try because he did business now and again with Mike. Mike was reliable. But either way, Mike Sunderland would be dead. “If not with you, then with someone else. Will you do it?”

  “I’d hate to lose such a reliable contact, but yes I’ll do it.” Silvio hummed again, though not like he was annoyed. “He is getting a bit full of himself, so it might be time to start a hunting season. I will do what you wish. I will also do what I can for your friend’s family. The holders will pay for the damage, but you’re still on your own, Maria.“

  I nodded to myself. “I know, but I tell you now, sir, I will take the blood-oath on this. I will go through anyone in my way, sir! I will hunt them down or die, not that I have much choice, but I will take as many with me as I can!” My cold hatred was back. There was nothing but death that would stop me from killing the bastards that did this. But I would kill John Goosan first.

  “I hear you, Maria. Good hunting!”

  “Thank you, sir!” I said and hung up.

  There was an eerie silence and it seemed to gather around me where I stood in the alley. It was much darker but I was still alert and the flickering shadows were nothing that could harm me.

  I felt isolated as I stood there with hatred coursing through me like an icy river. It ran deep the hatred. So did the guilt.

  Realization that once I had killed in revenge, there would be no going back, dawned on me. I already knew that I would cross that line that I had promised myself I would never cross. I would give my soul to demand revenge for something that never should have happened.

  Nothing would be normal after this. No secure little firm in the legal gray areas or any kind of normal life. I would probably live with the open contract on my head, even if I somehow, like some damn miracle, happened to survive and lived to kill Mike Sunderland.

  Anger fed the river of hatred inside me, and even though I knew that I would hate myself for taking this step – I would kill John, Mike and then the ones here in Chicago. They had to pay. Frederick and Smiley were negotiable, if I survived. But if I died, they could join me in hell!