Chapter 2 - The Lion's Court
The back alley behind the meatpacking plant smelled of salt, raw beef, and diesel exhaust.
A sleek, midnight-black Lincoln Continental sat idling near the loading dock, its dark tinted windows reflecting the grey Chicago sky. Standing beside the driver's door was Frankie Vane—a man built like a fire hydrant, with a scarred jaw, a tailored pinstripe suit, and a heavy nickel-plated Automatic tucked into his shoulder holster.
Beside Frankie stood two young soldiers, their hands buried in their heavy leather coats, eyes darting anxiously toward every shadow in the alley.
When the side door of Olyri’s Sweets and Breads swung open, Frankie’s hand instantly went inside his jacket.
Then he froze.
Out stepped Beatrice Hayes. She was wearing a heavy canvas work jacket over her clothes, carrying a three-hundred-pound mob boss who was limping heavily, wrapped in a oversized yellow plaid blanket she had pulled off her bed.
"Boss!" Frankie shouted, stepping forward with his men.
"Stay back, Frankie," Vincent commanded, his voice authority itself despite his ragged appearance and the blanket draped over his shoulders like a medieval cloak. "Stand down."
Frankie stopped three feet away, his mouth slightly open as he looked from Vincent’s bandaged leg down to the massive, flour-dusted woman holding him upright.
"Boss... we thought you were dead," Frankie stammered. "Carbone’s was a bloodbath. Leo... Leo didn't make it. Jimmy's gone. We've been sweeping the Southside since midnight looking for Foley’s crew."
"Declan Foley ambushed me behind 43rd Street," Vincent said, leaning heavily on Bee’s shoulder. "Twelve men. He had me pinned against the razor wire."
Frankie’s eyes went dark with murder. "Where is he? We’ll take twenty men and turn his social club into a smoking hole."
"He’s hiding," Vincent said coldly. "And the reason I am standing here breathing instead of floating down the Chicago River is the woman standing beside me."
Frankie turned his gaze to Bee. His eyes narrowed, evaluating her with the cynical suspicion of a man who had spent thirty years in the Chicago underworld.
"Who is she?" Frankie asked sharply. "How does a baker end up in the middle of a hit?"
"She saved my life using fifty gallons of dry-cleaning fluid and a brass lighter," Vincent said, a subtle, proud tilt returning to his chin. "And as of this morning, Miss Hayes is under my personal protection. Her word carries the weight of my own. If anyone in this city—Moretti, Foley, or one of our own captains—so much as looks at her without my permission, you bring me their head on a platter. Am I clear, Frankie?"
Frankie blinked, taken aback by the absolute, unyielding conviction in Vincent’s tone. He bowed his head quickly. "Understood, Boss."
Bee didn't look impressed. She shifted her shoulder slightly, adjusting Vincent’s weight.
"Are you done with the dramatic speeches, Costello?" she grunted. "My arms are going numb, and I have fifty dozen cinnamon rolls to prep by noon before the morning rush."
Frankie’s eyes widened in sheer shock. No one—no one—in South Chicago spoke to Vincent Costello like that and survived the afternoon. He waited for the Boss to tear her apart, or at least order her thrown into the back of the Lincoln.
Instead, Vincent let out a low, rumbling laugh that ended in a sharp wince as his ribs protested.
"Go back inside, Beatrice," Vincent said, turning his head to look into her hazel eyes. "Frankie will drop off two of my best men to stand guard at the front and rear doors of this bakery. They will not interfere with your business. They are there to make sure Foley’s trash doesn't step on your curb."
"I don't want your gunmen scaring my customers, Costello," Bee warned, pointing a thick, blunt index finger at his chest. "Olyri’s has been on this corner for forty years. Old Mrs. Gable comes in every morning at seven for her prune Danish. If your goons make her faint, I’m coming to your mansion and shooting you in the other leg."
Vincent’s mouth twitched into a rare, genuine smile.
"They will wear plain clothes," Vincent promised smoothly. "They will sit in a car across the street. And they will buy ten dozen pastries every morning to support your business."
Bee evaluated him for three long seconds, looking for any sign of mockery. Finding none, she gave a slow, reluctant nod.
"Fine," she said. She carefully transferred his weight to Frankie Vane, who stepped in hastily to support his boss. "Don't forget our deal, Costello. My brother’s medical bills. Tommy’s safety. Foley’s head."
"A Costello never forgets a debt, Beatrice," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a solemn, binding vow. "You hold my life. I hold your trust."
Bee turned without another word, her heavy work boots crunching on the gravel as she walked back into the dark loading bay of the bakery, the heavy steel door slamming shut behind her with a definitive CLANG.
Frankie helped Vincent into the plush leather back seat of the Continental, leaning over to drape the plaid blanket over his boss’s wounded leg.
"Boss," Frankie said nervously as he slid into the front passenger seat. "Who is she really? What does she have on you?"
May you like
Vincent leaned his head back against the leather headrest, closing his eyes as the pain meds Bee had given him began to blur the edges of his consciousness.
"She has my life, Frankie," Vincent whispered into the dark interior of the car. "And if I’m not careful... she’s going to take everything else."
