Captured by the Mob (Bianchi Crime Family 2)
“What kind of job?”
“I don’t know. He just told me it would be fun, and in that creepy fucking predator tone he has sometimes. I’m guessing it’s one of Gordon’s potential prostitutes with some nose candy for him to push.” More like sniffing up his own fucked-up nose.
“Do you have the place?”
“Bingo.” He reads off the address, and then my alarm on my computer goes off. I have a meeting with Rodgers to get to.
“Stay strong and do your job,” I tell him and end the call. So Walsh is holed up in a home in the southwest suburbs. I tap my pen on my desk and then head down to the conference room for my meeting with Rodgers.
An hour later and not a minute more, I’m up and out of the conference room, bored to tears. The man needs to get a sense of humor—even just a bit. I head back into my office and pack up my shit.
I pretend to be working when I get a call at the office from Carson. He’s going to be out the next two days because his mother’s hand and ankle are sprained, and she’ll need some help around until his sister can return to town. It’s fine because the place runs like a well-oiled machine that brings in a hundred million dollars annually in revenue.
Slipping out the back exit from my office and down the private staircase that leads to another vehicle of mine. From this angle, my car can’t be picked up by any of the surveillance cameras. I don’t use a digital map and this ride isn’t built with a GPS, so after using a paper map, I head south.
The drive is a long one, so it takes me two hours to get there in this fucking shitty traffic. I picked the wrong time to leave, but I didn’t want the fuck to leave if he happened to get wind that we’re onto his scam. It’s nearly bumper to bumper until you get past the city itself, then the roads open up. Why does Chicago traffic suck so fucking much?
Once I arrive in the poor, run-down suburban area, I scope it out for any signs of security. There looks to be little to no security anywhere which isn’t surprising.
This area had once been affluent, but all it took was a lot of drugs to turn that around. It’s one of the shittier parts of town, so I search the area for anyone suspicious, going about it methodically before I approach the house where my target is waiting. I spend a good while watching as no one comes and goes from that house. Thankfully, most of the homes are vacant or boarded up nearby, leaving fewer potential witnesses. Not that anyone would say a word because snitching is frowned upon in this drug ridden area.
It’s four in the afternoon when I finally decide it’s time to make my move. I’m creeping down the block to the house he’s holed up in when my attention is divided by a woman. I spot an angel coming my way. The sun creates a halo around her long, wavy reddish-brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that’s coming undone. It’s the middle of May, but the sun’s beating down with a heatwave which creates a dewy glow on her face, brightening up her rosy cheeks. Heaven help me, she looks thoroughly fucked, and if I get my way she will be.
Fuck me. My dick stiffens in my suit pants to the point of pain, so I do my best to look away. I should just duck my head and make sure she doesn’t see me, but I need to steal another glance. Thankfully, she’s oblivious to my stare as she moves to a parked vehicle just across the street, kitty-corner from my location. She’s in a pair of plain khaki pants and a dark green polo with a logo on the breast pocket. Despite having a large chest, the logo is hard to make out with the sun beaming down.
She sits down in the car, taking a long drink of water before making some notes on her pad of paper. Using my burner phone, I zoom in with the camera and then write down her plate number that I plan to pull the records on very shortly.
“Priorities, remember your priorities,” I say, trying to follow through on my objective. I’ll deal with this piece of shit, and then I’ll find her again. Business first, and then I’m going to find a way to introduce myself to my future bride. One look, one unaware swipe of her hair behind her ear, and my soul belongs to that woman; it doesn’t take more to know she’s mine.
Ignoring my lust, I head off to where I need to be, slip on my leather gloves, and screw on the suppressor. I enter through the sliding glass patio door in the back yard, which is surprisingly unlocked. Fucking crackheads are too stoned to remember things like that. I can smell the piss-soaked floors from the kitchen, and I do my best to hold my breath.