The Bratva owes me money. And a lot of other people, too.
They need cash. I need men.
We can help each other.
In a deliciously ironic twist, it’s the Griffins and the Gallos who will pay the fee to secure the alliance against themselves.
They’ll pay it in the form of a ransom of fourteen million dollars.
I picked that number because it’s the amount the Griffins and the Gallos should be able to scrounge up without tedious delays. It will sting, but not bankrupt them. They’ll be willing to pay it, and it seems a fitting price for Nessa.
I include the stolen lock of hair inside the ransom note.
I’m certain her parents will recognize that distinctive light-brown shade, and the softness of her natural, undyed hair. I think I could recognize it myself, wherever I might encounter it.
I rub it between my fingers and thumb before I drop it into the envelope. It feels like a silk tassel, as if it’s very much still alive and growing, even though it’s been separated from its source.
The note is clear in its instructions, and includes a threat:
To prove we have Nessa, we’ve cut off a piece of her hair. If you fail to provide the ransom, the next package you receive will contain one of her fingers, then the rest of the hand. The last box will hold her head.
I wish I could see their faces as they agonize over that prospect.
It’s fun to write, less fun to do. I enjoy torturing the Griffins and the Gallos, but I don’t relish the idea of cutting bits and pieces off of Nessa.
I doubt I’ll have to follow through.
The two families have been hunting for Nessa all across the city. They’ve paid thousands of dollars to informants, while beating and threatening many more. They raided two of my safe houses and got in a brawl with the bouncers at my club.
But they’ve found absolutely fucking nothing.
Because I’m not stupid enough to let some rat or some low-level soldier find out about my plans.
They suspect me, but they don’t even know for certain that I’m the one who took Nessa.
Which is why involving the Russians in the ransom will muddy the waters all the more.
I give the Griffins twenty-four hours to get the ransom together.
I provide a burner phone along with the ransom letter, so I can tell them the drop point at the last minute. I have no interest in trying to contend with Dante Gallo’s sniper rifle, or a dozen of their men sequestered at ambush points, if I were stupid enough to give them advance notice of the location.
Still, I expect them to break the rules. They are gangsters, after all. If I scratch their cultured surface, I’ll find the grit underneath. They’re just as willing as I am to do whatever it takes to get what they want. Or at least, they think they are.
Jonas makes the call, because he has no accent.
I can hear the tinny echo of Fergus Griffin responding. He’s maintaining his politeness—he won’t allow his temper to endanger his daughter. But I hear the rage simmering below the surface.
“Where do you want us to bring the money?” he says, tightly.
“Graceland Cemetery,” Jonas replies. “That’s a thirteen-minute drive. I’ll give you fifteen, to be generous. Send two men in one car. Bring the phone. The Clark Street gate will be unlocked.”
We’re already waiting in the cemetery. I’ve got six of my men stationed at vantage points. Kolya Kristoff has brought four of his own.
Less than two minutes later, Andrei texts me to say that a black Lincoln Town Car has left the lakeside mansion, with loyal lapdog Jack Du Pont driving and Callum Griffin in the passenger seat. As I expected, Marcel texts me a moment later, telling me that Dante and Nero Gallo have left their old townhouse. They’re driving separate cars, presumably with several of their men along for the ride.
So predictable.
It doesn’t matter. I’ve narrowed the funnel by unlocking a single cemetery gate. During the fall and winter months, the cemetery closes at 4:00 p.m. We’ve had plenty of time to capture the only two rent-a-cops patrolling the grounds, and to set up our own men all around.
The Russians have even brought our hostage. She’s bound hand and foot, dressed in the same clothes Nessa wore the day that we kidnapped her—hoodie, jeans, and even her sneakers. A black cloth bag covers her head, with the ends of her brown hair protruding underneath.
I look her over with a practiced eye.
“It’s good,” I say to Kolya.
Kolya grins, showing white teeth with pointed incisors. He’s darker than the average Russian, with long, narrow eyes below straight, thick brows. Mongolian ancestry, probably. Some of the most ruthless Bratva are Tartars. He’s young and confident—I doubt the Chicago Bratva will continue to flounder under his leadership. Which means that he and I may soon be at odds again.
But for now, we’re allies. Happy to join forces against our common enemies.
“Where do you want her?” Kolya asks.
I point to the small temple at the edge of the lake. It looks like a miniature Parthenon. You can see all the way inside it, through the gaps in the stone pillars.
“Put her in there,” I say.
I’ve chosen the cemetery for strategic reasons. It has only one proper entrance point, with high walls all around. It’s 119 acres of winding paths through dense trees and stone monuments, large and crowded enough that it would be difficult for anyone to find us without specific directions.
Then, of course, there’s the omnipresent reminder of death. The unspoken threat that the Griffins had better cooperate, if they don’t want their youngest member to remain in the cemetery permanently.
Kolya will be the one collecting the ransom. He’s agreed to this because he doesn’t want the money out of his hands for a moment. It’s his payment, in return for joining his forces to mine.
I’ve agreed to it because I’m only too happy to shift the Griffins’ focus from my men to Kolya’s. If anyone gets shot, I want it to be a Russian.
I fall back to a separate vantage point, back among the trees. We’ve all got ear-pieces. I can see and hear the exchange from here.
I don’t give a shit that I’m walking over buried bodies in the dead of night. I don’t believe in heaven or hell, ghosts or spirits. The dead are no danger because they don’t exist anymore. I’m concerned only with the living. Only they can get in my way.
Still, I’m not such a philistine that I can’t recognize how beautiful this place is. Massive, ancient oaks. Stone monuments built by some of the finest sculptors in Chicago.
There’s one grave in particular that catches my eye, because its statue is entirely enclosed in glass, like Snow White’s coffin. I draw closer to it, wanting to make out the figure in the dark.
Inside the upright glass box sits a stone girl, life-sized. She’s wearing a dress, a sun hat dangling down her back by its strings. She’s barefoot, holding an umbrella.
The inscription reads:
Inez Clark
1873-1880
Killed by Lightning,
While Playing in the Rain
I wonder if the glass box is meant to protect her statue from further storms.
I understand the sentiment. Too bad it’s pointless. Once you’ve lost someone you love, there’s no protecting them anymore.
My lookouts keep watch at every corner of the cemetery. They inform me when Callum Griffin arrives at the main gate, and when the Gallo brothers drive up Kenmore Avenue a moment later, obviously intending to sneak over the back wall.