Chapter 6 - THE SAFEHOUSE IN CICERO
Evelyn’s tiny, rundown apartment was the last place anyone would look for a millionaire mafia boss. The radiator hissed its familiar, annoying squeal as Lorenzo laid Marco on the cheap futon.
Evelyn went straight to the bathroom and brought out a first-aid kit, some clean towels, and a bottle of cheap vodka. "I don't have morphine, but this will clean the wound," she said, handing it to Lorenzo.
Lorenzo worked with clinical efficiency, digging a 9mm slug out of Marco’s shoulder while the man bit down on a leather belt. Evelyn watched from the kitchen counter, trying to process the fact that she had a mafia boss, a bleeding hitman, and a kidnapped heiress in her 400-square-foot studio.
"Why didn't you just look the other way?" Lorenzo asked suddenly, wrapping a bandage tightly around Marco's chest. He looked up at her, his dark eyes piercing. "You have no money. No power. You could have walked away."
"My father owed men like you," Evelyn said quietly, crossing her arms. "He died because of it. I hate your world, Mr. Moretti. I hate everything you stand for."
"Then why save me?"
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"Because nobody deserves to be betrayed by the person sitting next to them at dinner," she whispered. "And because I needed the tip to pay my electricity bill."
Lorenzo stared at her. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a massive roll of cash—thousands of dollars. He tossed it onto the kitchen counter. "Consider your bills paid. Now, tell me everything you remember about the men in the dining room."
