Page 2 of The Bonventi War

The crow takes flight, its wings cutting through the autumn air with a whisper. I watch it disappear into the gray Chicago sky, carrying my words with it. At least, that's what I choose to believe.

2

GIO

Iswirl the amber liquid in my glass before taking a sip. The whiskey burns just right going down. Enzo sits across from me, typing something on his phone.

"Seems quiet tonight," I mutter, scanning the dimly lit space. The Capstone's speakeasy is our territory, but you can never be too careful.

Enzo nods, putting his phone away. "Good. We need some peace and quiet after the shitstorm of the past few months."

I grunt in agreement, thinking of my younger brother, Marco. The memory of his blood-soaked shirt, the panic in his eyes as they rushed him to the hospital, still haunts me. My grip tightens on the glass.

"Speaking of," I say, glancing at my diamond encrusted Rolex, "he's late." More observation than criticism.

Enzo takes a sip. "Yeah, when isn't he?"

A few minutes go by, and the door opens, white light spilling into the darkness. Marco's familiar silhouette appears, andsomething in my chest loosens. Even after all these months, seeing him walking—actually fucking walking—fills me with relief.

"Look who's here," Enzo says.

Marco strides toward us, moving with only the slightest hint of stiffness.

"Well, well," I say as he reaches our table. "Senator Bonventi, so nice of you to grace us with his presence."

Marco grins, sliding into the seat next to me. "Miss me, brother?"

I snort. "Like a bad hangover."

Enzo leans forward, his eyes sharp as he looks Marco over. "How you feeling?"

"Better every day. Physical therapist says I'm ahead of schedule." He drums his fingers on the table. "Says it's like I wasn't even shot, so that's got to count for something."

I signal the waitress for another round. "And Alina? She still playing nurse?"

Marco smiles. "You know her. She's been amazing, but I think she's about ready to strangle me if I don't stop complaining about the exercises."

We all laugh, the tension easing a bit. The waitress arrives with our drinks, and for a moment, we're just three brothers having a drink, not the most feared family in Chicago.

"Speaking of Alina, she told me that the whole assassination attempt was actually good for me politically. So watch out, maybe I'll run for president one day."

"Jesus help us," I say and take a drink.

"Oh, fuck off," Marco says, laughing.

"So," Enzo says after a moment, his voice low, "you said you had some new info on that piece-of-shit shooter?"

Marco sets down his drink. "Yeah, this." He reaches into his pocket.

He pulls out a folded piece of paper and smooths it out on the table.

"I got this from the police chief today," Marco says, sliding it toward Enzo and me.

"What the hell is this?" Enzo asks, leaning forward to get a better look.

"It's a photocopy of a note that was on the shooter," Marco says casually and takes a drink.

I snatch up the paper, my eyes scanning the words scrawled across it. My blood runs cold as I read them aloud: