Home > Stolen Heir(31)

Stolen Heir(31)
Author: Sophie Lark

I suppose that’s how he hit Tymon with three shots to the chest. Practice makes perfect.

Now that I’ve killed two birds with one stone, extorting money from the Griffins and paying it to the Russians, I’d like to do the same with Dante. I’d like to fuck him up royally, while ridding myself of another enemy at the same time.

So the next time Dante makes his visit to the shooting range, I have Andrei steal Dante’s Beretta right out of his bag. It’s his old service weapon, one of the few that I can be certain was legally purchased and registered to his name.

The next part is a bit tricky. Dante is too clever to lure into an ambush. So I have to bring the ambush to him.

I may not be chummy with the police commissioner like Fergus Griffin, but I have two beat cops on my payroll: Officers Hernandez and O’Malley. One never covers the spread on the Cubs, the other owes child support to three different women.

I tell them to park their patrol car a block away from the Gallo house, right in the center of Old Town. They wait there every night, all week long. Until finally there’s an evening where Enzo and Nero are out, and Dante is home all alone.

Now here’s where we bring in the other bird.

Walton Miller is the head of the BACP in Chicago—which means he’s the fellow who hands out liquor licenses. Or rescinds them, when his chubby little palm isn’t crossed with a bribe that suits his fancy.

He’s been getting greedier and greedier by the year, extorting me for five separate payments for my bars and strip clubs.

Miller has a beef with the Gallos. The Gallos own two Italian restaurants, and Dante hasn’t paid up for either, despite selling enough wine to fill Lake Michigan.

I give Miller a nice, hefty payment for my liquor licenses. Then I give him a briefcase full of evidence against Dante Gallo—a bunch of photoshopped shit that looks like illegal tax returns from the restaurant.

Like the fool he is, Miller goes scurrying over to the Gallo house, thinking he’s going to twist Dante’s arm.

Under the normal course of events, Dante would literally twist Miller’s arm in return—twist it until it fucking breaks, set his evidence on fire, and send Miller slinking back home with his tail between his legs and a better appreciation for why nobody else in the city of Chicago would be stupid enough to try to blackmail Dante Gallo.

That’s what would usually happen.

But at 10:04 p.m., Miller knocks on the door.

At 10:05, Dante lets him inside.

At 10:06, an anonymous caller dials 911, reporting shots fired at 1540 North Wieland Street.

At 10:08, officers Hernandez and O’Malley are sent to investigate, as the closest squad car to the scene.

At 10:09, they stand where Miller stood, hammering on the door of the Gallo residence. Dante opens up. He tries to refuse entry without a warrant, but the officers have probable cause. Reluctantly, he lets them in the house.

The rest is relayed to me via Officer Hernandez himself, later that night, in his usual colorful manner:

“So we go in the house, and we start poking around while Gallo’s standing there all sulky, arms crossed. He says, ‘See, no firefight going on. So get the fuck out.’ Miller is lurking in the dining room, looking squirrelly as fuck. So I say, ‘Can you come out here please, sir,’ like I have no idea who he is. He comes out in the hallway, eyes kinda darting back and forth, not knowing what the hell is going on. Nervous as can be. Gallo is cool as a cucumber, not giving anything away.

“O’Malley says, ‘What are you two gentlemen up to?’ And Gallo says, ‘None of your fucking business.’ And Miller tries to make some excuse and Gallo cuts him off and says, ‘Don’t answer any of their questions.’ Then I say, ‘Do you have any weapons on you, sir?’ And Gallo says, ‘No.’ So I say, ‘Good,’ and I pull my gun on him.

“Gallo says, ‘You better watch yourself, officer. I’m not some kid outside a 7-11. You don’t get to put eight in my chest and call it self-defense.’ Then O’Malley says, ‘Don’t worry, we’re not here for you.’ And he pulls the Beretta and empties half the clip into Miller.

“Miller goes down without a peep, just a dumb fucking look on his face. He didn’t even see it comin’. O’Malley kicks his leg to make sure he’s dead, and sure enough, Miller is an insta-corpse.

“I’m watching Gallo the whole time. He’s like a rock, man, he doesn’t flinch. But as soon as he sees the Beretta, he recognizes it. His eyes get wide ‘cause he knows he’s fucked. He looks at me, and I can see his brain workin’. I think he’s gonna run at me.

“O’Malley says, ‘Don’t even think about it, I’ve got four shots left.’ He turns his gun on Gallo. I’ve got mine pointed right in his face.

“Cold as a popsicle, Gallo says, ‘How much you getting paid for this?’ Which of course I don’t entertain at all, boss. I say, ‘None ya fuckin’ business. You ain’t gettin’ out of this one.’

“So we cuff that son of a bitch and O’Malley puts him in the squad car. I wipe down the Beretta, then I shove it into Gallo’s hands while they’re cuffed behind his back, to get some prints on the gun and some residue on his hands. I make sure the scene looks nice and pretty, then I call it in. It all went down peachy, boss. Just like we planned.”

Just like I planned. Those two idiots could barely fill out a McDonald’s application without help.

“Where is he now?” I ask.

“Miller?”

“No,” I say, through gritted teeth. “I assume Miller’s at the morgue. I’m asking about Dante Gallo.”

“Oh. He’s down at the station. Gallo called Riona Griffin down there the same hour, and she tried to get a quick dismissal, but it’s Judge Pitz running cases this week and he said no fuckin’ way, and no bail either. He’s not a fan of the Gallos. So Dante gets to sit in jail for the foreseeable future while we investigate this thing, nice and slow.”

I smile, picturing Dante in a crisp set of prison blues, crammed in a cell barely big enough to fit his burly body. And his siblings, all too eager to run wild without their older brother keeping them in check. Enzo’s getting old—Dante is the lynchpin holding the Gallos together. They’ll fall to pieces without him.

“You want me to figure out who’s in the cell with him, boss?” Hernandez asks. “I can get a nice rusty shank put between his ribs any time you like.”

“No,” I say.

Dante is going to rot in there, miserable and furious.

When I decide it’s time for him to die, I won’t be delegating the task to a moron like Hernandez.

I like that Riona Griffin is defending Gallo. That gives me plenty of opportunity to dirty her hands as well—not that anybody was under the impression that she got her legal degree to uphold the law.

It’s all falling into place beautifully.

Of course, I’m expecting some pushback from my enemies. They’re not going to take hits like this lying down.

Sure enough, the very next day the Griffins’ men confiscate a warehouse full of blow belonging to the Russians, shooting two of their soldiers in the process.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of town, Nero Gallo incinerates my most profitable strip club. Luckily, it was 3:00 a.m., after all my girls had gone home. But it’s still infuriating, watching the footage of Nero setting it all alight.

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