Chapter 2 - The Price of Loyalty
By 3:00 a.m., Vane Rossi’s breathing had stabilized, thanks to a combination of Mave’s stubborn refusal to let him die on her futon and the sheer, terrifying force of his own biology. The bleeding had stopped under a makeshift pressure bandage made of dish towels and duct tape.
The dog—whom Vane casually referred to as Kaiser—had curled its massive, eighty-pound frame across the small threshold of her kitchen door, effectively barring any exit or entrance.
Mave sat across the room on a folding metal chair, nursing a cup of instant coffee that tasted like burnt plastic. She watched Vane through the dim amber glow of a single floor lamp. Even flat on his back, bruised and stitched up with thread she’d stolen from a sewing kit, he radiated a cold, oppressive danger.
"You should have left me," Vane said quietly. His gray eyes were wide open, fixed on the popcorn ceiling.
"You said that in the alley. You also said don't touch the dog, and look how well that turned out," Mave retorted, blowing on her coffee. "Why were you tied to a gas pipe with a zip tie over your mouth? Last I checked, captains of the Chicago underworld usually have people for that."
Vane turned his head slowly, wincing as the movement pulled his stitches. "A coup. My second-in-command decided that the old rules were getting in the way of a new profit margin. They cleared out my detail, ambushed me at the warehouse, and thought leaving me for dead in the rain with my dog was poetic."
"And instead, they got intercepted by a twenty-six-year-old waitress making minimum wage plus tips," Mave said flatly. "You're welcome, by the way. That's two dollars an hour I could have spent on rent instead of playing field medic to a billionaire criminal."
A faint, ghostly shadow of a smirk touched the corner of Vane’s bruised mouth. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. "You think this is funny, Mave. It isn't. The men who put me there know my face. They know my cars. Which means within twelve hours, they will sweep every hospital, every clinic, and every cheap diner within five miles of that alley."
Mave’s coffee cup stopped halfway to her mouth. The amber light of the lamp flickered as the apartment building's ancient wiring groaned under the weight of the wind outside.
"Carmichael's," she whispered.
"What?"
"That's where I work. That's three blocks from the alley. If they check the night shift schedule, they'll see I clocked out at 2:00 a.m. and didn't come back." She stood up, her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "They'll come to the diner. And if they find my locker, they'll find my address on my tax forms."
Vane didn't panic. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his face tightening with pain, but his eyes were entirely clear. "Get your coat."
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"Where are we going? You can barely sit up!"
"We are going to my warehouse on 4th Street," Vane said, his voice dropping into that chilling, absolute command. "Before the sun comes up, my loyalists will have cleaned out the rats who put me there. And you, Mave... you are going to find out what happens when you save Vane Rossi's life."
