THE 10-YEAR-OLD WAITER AND THE CHICAGO BOSS

The drive to Noah’s apartment was a blur of neon streetlights and screeching tires. Vincent had hotwired a rusty sedan parked two blocks from the restaurant. He drove with a terrifying, silent precision.

Noah sat in the passenger seat, his hands gripping his knees.

"Is she... is she going to be okay?" Noah asked, his voice trembling.

"We're going to get her," Vincent said. It wasn't a comfort. It was a vow.

They pulled into the alley behind Noah’s crumbling brick apartment building. The street was dead quiet. Too quiet.

"Stay behind me," Vincent ordered, drawing his revolver.

They climbed the fire escape to the third floor. Noah’s heart pounded against his ribs with every metal creak. When they reached his window, Noah saw it.

The glass was shattered.

Vincent reached in, unlocked the latch, and slid the window up. He slipped inside without making a sound. Noah followed, dropping onto the worn carpet of his small living room.

The place had been trashed.

Drawers were yanked out. Chairs were flipped. The small TV was smashed on the floor.

Noah ran toward the kitchen. "Mom!"

"Quiet!" Vincent hissed, grabbing the boy's shoulder.

Vincent swept the apartment, checking the bedroom and the tiny bathroom. Empty. But there was a struggle.

Noah knelt on the kitchen floor. Beside the overturned dining table, something glittered in the dim streetlight bleeding through the window.

It was a cheap plastic bead bracelet. Noah had made it for his mother for her birthday two years ago. The string was snapped. The beads were scattered across the linoleum.

Noah picked up a small blue bead, his vision blurring with tears. "She didn't leave on her own."

"I know," Vincent said softly. He crouched beside Noah, picking up a heavy, scuffed piece of metal off the floor. It was a spent bullet casing.

Vincent held it up to the light. "45 caliber. Government issue."

Before Noah could ask what that meant, a shadow detached itself from the hallway darkness.

"Drop the gun, DeLuca."

Vincent froze.

Standing in the doorway was a man in a rumpled trench coat, holding a heavy duty service pistol aimed directly at Vincent’s chest.

Noah recognized him. It was Detective Miller. He was a cop who sometimes came into The Blackstone Room to eat free steaks in the back booth. Mr. Harlan always gave him envelopes.

"Miller," Vincent said calmly, not dropping his gun. "You're a long way from your precinct."

"I got a call about a break-in," Miller said, his hands shaking slightly. "Imagine my surprise finding Chicago's biggest target standing in a poor kid's kitchen."

"Where is the woman who lives here?" Vincent demanded.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Miller lied. His eyes darted nervously toward the shattered window.

Noah saw it. The detective was sweating. He was terrified.

"You took her," Noah blurted out.

Miller flinched. "Shut up, kid."

"Vivienne bought you," Vincent said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Just like she bought Sal. How much did she pay you to hand over an innocent woman?"

"Fifty grand," Miller swallowed hard. "I didn't hurt her, Vince. I swear. I just handed her off to Rossi’s guys at the docks."

Vincent went completely still. "Rossi?"

Noah looked at Vincent. The boss looked as if he had just been punched in the stomach.

"That's right," Miller said, regaining some confidence. "Your precious Vivienne didn't just want your money. She wanted your head. She sold you to the Rossi family."

Vincent lowered his gun slightly. "Miller. You know what the Rossi family does to witnesses. They aren't going to let this boy's mother live. And they aren't going to let you live, either."

Miller’s face paled.

"You think fifty grand buys your safety?" Vincent took a slow step forward. "I pay you ten grand a month just to look the other way. If Vivienne gave you fifty, it’s because she considers you disposable."

Miller’s gun wavered. "Stand back, Vince."

Vincent reached into his inner pocket. Miller tensed, but Vincent pulled out a silver pocket watch. He tossed it onto the kitchen counter. It landed with a heavy clink.

"You remember that?" Vincent asked.

Miller stared at the watch. "My father's."

"I bought it back from the pawn shop for you ten years ago when you were drowning in gambling debts," Vincent said. "I bought your loyalty. Now, I’m buying this boy’s mother. Tell me exactly which dock Rossi’s men took her to."

Miller looked at the watch. Then he looked at Noah’s tear-stained face.

The detective lowered his gun. "Pier 39. The old cannery. But Vince... Vivienne is there. And she’s not planning to negotiate."

Miller pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it out.

"She told me to give this to you if I saw you."

Vincent took the paper. He unfolded it.

Inside was a single, flawless diamond earring. The matching pair to the one Vivienne wore at the restaurant.