Chapter 9 - THE COMMISSION'S LEVERAGE
The sleek black town car glided through the desolate streets of the industrial district like a ghost.
I struggled frantically against the heavy plastic zip-ties binding my wrists, but the thick plastic didn’t budge. The gag in my mouth tasted like stale cotton, muffling my desperate sobs. The thin cut on my forehead throbbed in time with my racing heartbeat.
The Commission in New York.
I had heard whispers of them among the staff at the Moretti mansion. They were the shadowy, omnipotent council that controlled the five families on the East Coast. Arthur Bellini and Luca Moretti were kings in Chicago, but they still answered to the emperors in New York.
And now, one of those emperors’ executioners had me in the back of his car.
"Struggling is entirely pointless, Miss Carter," the elegant man in the driver's seat said smoothly, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "The ties are reinforced polymer. You’ll only break your own wrists."
He didn't sound angry. He sounded profoundly bored, treating my abduction with the casual indifference of a man completing a mundane chore.
"We are taking a short drive to a private airfield in Gary, Indiana," the Emissary continued conversationally, adjusting his expensive silk tie. "From there, a private jet will fly us to a secure location in upstate New York. Once you are comfortably settled, I will contact Mr. Moretti. We will inform him that if he testifies against Arthur Bellini or hands any further ledgers to the FBI, you will be mailed back to him in several small boxes."
My stomach plummeted. He wasn't going to kill me quickly. He was going to use me as a living, breathing hostage to force Luca into submission for the rest of his life.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a tear slipping down my cheek. I thought of Luca standing on the loading dock, realizing I was gone. He had risked everything to tear down Arthur’s empire, and now the Commission was going to force him to put it all back together just to keep me alive.
I couldn't let them use me to break him.
I opened my eyes, scanning the dark interior of the town car.
The Emissary was confident. He hadn't bothered to bind my ankles, assuming the zip-ties and the locked doors were enough to subdue a terrified housemaid.
He didn't know I grew up surviving a father who drank away his paychecks and locked me in closets. I knew how to fight dirty.
I shifted my weight slightly on the leather seat, bringing my knees up toward my chest. I kept my eyes locked on the back of his headrest, waiting for the perfect moment.
The town car approached a heavy four-way intersection. The traffic light hanging over the deserted road was red.
The Emissary, a creature of refined habit, actually slowed the car to a stop at the empty intersection, his foot resting lightly on the brake pedal.
Now.
I threw myself forward with every ounce of strength I possessed.
I kicked both of my heavy, work-issued boots directly into the back of the driver's seat.
The sudden, violent impact sent the Emissary lurching forward. His chest slammed hard against the steering wheel, the airbag miraculously failing to deploy, but the force knocked the breath completely out of his lungs.
His foot slipped off the brake pedal, hitting the accelerator.
The heavy town car surged forward into the intersection.
"You stupid bitch!" the Emissary gasped, scrambling to regain control of the steering wheel.
But I didn't stop. I swung my bound hands upward, bringing the thick plastic zip-ties over the headrest, wrapping my arms around the Emissary's neck from behind. I pulled backward with all my might, using the zip-ties as a makeshift garrote, pressing the plastic painfully against his windpipe.
He gagged, his hands flying off the steering wheel to claw desperately at the plastic biting into his throat.
The car, now completely out of control, careened through the intersection at forty miles an hour.
We hopped the curb, tearing through a chain-link fence in a shower of sparks and screeching metal, before smashing violently into the brick wall of an abandoned warehouse.
The impact was catastrophic.
The airbags finally deployed with a deafening CRACK, filling the cabin with white powder and the smell of burnt sulfur. I was thrown violently against the back of the front seat, my vision exploding into a chaotic blur of stars before everything went black.
I didn't know how long I was unconscious.
I woke up to the sound of hissing radiator fluid and the agonizing, sharp pain throbbing in my shoulder.
I blinked, my vision slowly clearing. The interior of the town car was filled with smoke. The front end was completely crumpled against the brick wall.
I looked toward the driver's seat.
The Emissary was slumped over the steering wheel, unconscious, blood trickling from a nasty gash on his forehead where he had hit the glass before the airbag deployed. The zip-ties had snapped during the crash, leaving my wrists bruised but free.
I spat the gag out of my mouth, coughing violently on the smoke.
I had to get out.
I grabbed the door handle, but it was jammed from the impact. I kicked the window frantically with my boots until the shattered safety glass finally gave way, crumbling outward onto the pavement.
I squeezed through the broken window, tumbling out onto the cold, wet concrete of the alleyway. I gasped for fresh air, my entire body screaming in pain, but the adrenaline forced me to stand.
I didn't run. I knew he would wake up. I needed to ensure he couldn't follow me.
I reached back through the broken window and grabbed the Emissary's sleek, suppressed handgun from the shoulder holster visible under his jacket. I also grabbed his cell phone from the center console.
I stumbled away from the wrecked car, clutching my bruised ribs, retreating into the deep shadows of the industrial park.
I found a narrow gap between two rusted shipping containers and collapsed into the dirt, hidden from the street.
I turned the Emissary's phone on. It wasn't locked with a passcode; it was a burner.
I didn't dial 911. I knew the police were heavily infiltrated by Arthur's men, and I didn't know who I could trust. There was only one person in Chicago who could protect me now.
I dialed the number I had memorized from cleaning his desk every day for seven months.
It rang twice.
"Who is this?" Luca’s voice barked through the speaker. He sounded unhinged, frantic, like a man who was tearing the city apart with his bare hands.
"Luca," I sobbed, the sound of his voice finally breaking my stoic survival mode.
"Emma?!" Luca roared, the profound, agonizing relief in his voice bringing fresh tears to my eyes. "Emma, where are you?! Are you hurt?!"
"I'm okay, I'm okay," I cried quietly, pressing the phone to my ear. "A man took me from the loading dock. He said he was an Emissary from the New York Commission. He was going to use me as leverage to keep you quiet about Arthur."
"Where is he?" Luca demanded, his voice dropping to a terrifying, lethal octave.
"I crashed the car," I explained, shivering in the cold. "We hit a wall near the old railyard on 18th Street. He’s unconscious. I took his gun and his phone. I’m hiding between some shipping containers."
"Stay exactly where you are," Luca commanded, the sound of a heavy car engine revving in the background. "Do not move. Do not speak to anyone. I am three minutes away."
"Luca, be careful," I pleaded. "If he wakes up, he’s a professional killer."
"He won't be waking up," Luca promised coldly. The line clicked dead.
I sat in the dirt, clutching the stolen gun, my eyes fixed on the entrance of the alleyway where the wrecked town car sat smoking in the moonlight.
Two minutes passed.
Suddenly, the driver's side door of the wrecked town car groaned open.
My breath caught in my throat.
The Emissary stumbled out of the car. He looked dazed, blood dripping down his face, holding a secondary weapon he must have kept in an ankle holster. He looked around the empty alleyway, his eyes narrowing as he realized I was gone.
He began limping slowly down the alley, his gun raised, checking the shadows between the buildings.
He was walking directly toward my hiding spot between the shipping containers.
I raised the heavy, unfamiliar handgun, my hands shaking violently. I aimed it at his chest, praying I wouldn't have to pull the trigger.
"You’re making this very difficult, Miss Carter," the Emissary called out smoothly, his voice echoing in the quiet alley. "You can’t run forever. The Commission has eyes everywhere."
He stopped just ten feet away from my hiding spot. He turned his head, his cold eyes piercing the darkness, locking directly onto my silhouette between the containers.
He raised his gun, aiming it right at my face.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my finger tightening on the trigger.
But before either of us could fire, a deafening, terrifying roar shattered the silence of the alleyway.
It wasn't a gunshot.
It was the massive, armored grill of a black SUV hurtling out of the darkness at sixty miles an hour, completely without headlights.
The Emissary didn't even have time to scream.
The armored SUV slammed directly into the New York hitman, crushing his body violently against the solid brick wall of the warehouse in a sickening, catastrophic impact.
The SUV screeched to a halt, pinning the lifeless body of the Emissary between the reinforced steel bumper and the brick wall.
The driver’s door of the SUV kicked open.
Luca Moretti stepped out into the alleyway, holding an assault rifle, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with adrenaline and terror.
He didn't even look at the crushed body of the hitman. He dropped the rifle, his eyes frantically scanning the shadows.
"Emma!" Luca roared.
I stumbled out from between the shipping containers, dropping the stolen gun, tears streaming down my face.
"Luca!" I sobbed, running toward him.
Luca met me halfway, crashing into me, wrapping his strong arms around my waist and lifting me completely off the ground. He buried his face in my neck, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe, his entire massive frame trembling with the sheer, overwhelming relief of finding me alive.
"I've got you," Luca whispered fiercely into my hair, kissing my temple, my cheek, anywhere he could reach. "I've got you. You're safe."
I clung to his tactical vest, burying my face in his chest, finally letting the terror of the night wash away in the safety of his arms. He smelled like gunpowder, expensive cologne, and absolute protection.
He set me down gently, keeping one arm securely wrapped around my waist, his dark eyes intensely focused on the cut on my forehead. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping the blood away.
"You crashed the car," Luca murmured, a mixture of awe and profound adoration in his voice. "You took out a Commission Emissary with a seatbelt and a steering wheel."
"I told you," I smiled shakily through my tears, looking up into his beautiful, dangerous eyes. "I'm not just a housemaid."
Luca smiled, a genuine, breathtaking expression that wiped away the harsh lines of the mafia boss.
"No," Luca said softly, leaning down to press his forehead against mine. "You are the queen of this city."
Before I could process the weight of his words, the quiet intimacy of the alleyway was broken by the sound of approaching sirens. The police were responding to the crash.
"We need to go," Luca said, his protective instincts snapping back into place. "The FBI deal is secure. Arthur is in custody. We’re leaving the city tonight."
He guided me to the passenger side of the armored SUV, carefully helping me inside. He climbed into the driver’s seat, threw the car in reverse, and pulled away from the crushed body of the Emissary, leaving the nightmare behind us in the dark.
As we merged onto the highway, heading toward the private airstrip where Teresa was waiting, I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, exhausted but incredibly peaceful.
"Where are we going?" I asked quietly, watching the Chicago skyline fade in the rearview mirror.
Luca glanced at me, a soft, weary smile touching his lips.
"Montreal first," Luca said, reaching across the center console to lace his strong fingers securely through mine. "After that... anywhere you want, Emma. The syndicate is dead. I'm just Luca now."
I squeezed his hand, my heart swelling with a profound, overwhelming love for the man who had burned his entire world to the ground just to keep me safe.
"Anywhere sounds perfect," I whispered.
We drove in comfortable, quiet silence as the first rays of dawn began to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant hues of gold and pink. The long, terrifying night was finally over, and a new life was just beginning.
But as the sun rose, warming the interior of the SUV, Luca’s encrypted cell phone buzzed violently in the cup holder.
Luca frowned, picking it up. Only Marco and the FBI had this number.
He answered it on speakerphone.
"Marco? Are you and my mother at the airstrip?" Luca asked.
A heavy, terrifying static crackled over the line.
It wasn't Marco’s voice that answered.
"Your mother is very comfortable, Luca," a smooth, chillingly familiar voice echoed through the speaker. "But I’m afraid she won't be making the flight to Montreal today."
Luca slammed on the brakes, pulling the heavy SUV violently onto the shoulder of the highway. The color drained entirely from his face.
I stared at the phone in sheer, unadulterated horror.
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It was the voice of the bank manager. The man who had helped Vincenzo steal the money five years ago.
"You didn't really think the FBI ambush at my house was a coincidence, did you?" the bank manager laughed coldly over the phone. "Arthur Bellini didn't tip them off, Luca. I did. Because Arthur doesn't run this city. I do."
