“Can I ask you something?” Dom says as the cab weaves through traffic.
I grunt, staring out the window, hoping he’ll drop it.
Of course, he doesn’t.
He leans in, lowering his voice so only I hear. “You knew her before all this, didn’t you?”
I hesitate. “Not the way you think,” I say. It’s vague but true. I can’t let him know how deep this cuts, how tangled my feelings really are.
“But enough that you care,” he presses.
I grit my teeth. I don’t want to have this conversation with him right now, but he deserves the truth.
At least part of it.
“This isn’t about leverage anymore, is it?” he guesses.
I shake my head, eyes locked on the blur of lights outside. “No. It’s not.”
Dom studies me for a beat, then leans back. “That’s all I needed to know.”
I stare out the window as Northwestern comes into view, its gothic spires etched against the lakefront glow. The cab slows down, then stops.
“Looks like this is the end of the line,” the driver says.
Purple banners snap in the wind. Police lights flashing and reflecting off the brick buildings. A cluster of students andofficers huddle near the quad, their gazes shifting as they notice us.
My heart hammers in my chest.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Dom mutters. “Stay here.”
At six-four, he’s impossible to miss, but somehow it’s a miracle he can pass unnoticed. He shoves his hands in his pockets and lurches down the sidewalk like a guy too drunk to stand straight.
He stumbles right into the cops, slurs a few words, and even drops onto the steps as if he’s ready to pass out. When one officer tries to shoo him off, Dom throws an arm around his shoulders like they’re old friends.
Finally, the cop jerks free and points firmly down the street, a clear message toget the fuck out of here.
Dom staggers away, selling the act until he’s out of sight. Then he straightens just enough to catch my eyes and flicks his hand toward the cab.
“Go around the block,” he mouths.
The driver mutters something under his breath but pulls out, circling until we spot Dom again, wandering a quieter street. He slides back into the backseat, calm as if Chicago PD hadn’t just thrown him out.
“I’ve got someone triangulating where Vincenzo Campisi likes to do hisbusiness,” he says.
By business, we both know he meanstorturing people.
“Where to, fellas?” the driver asks, impatient.
Dom tosses a few bills over the seat. “Give us a minute. Turn up the radio. Loud.”
“Your dime,” he mutters, idling at the side of the road while we figure our shit out. The music comes on in the front, and he turns it up as requested.
Dom and I lean in, speaking in whispers to assure the driver doesn’t hear us.
“The girls came home from dinner out and saw someone matching Vincenzo’s description tossing a person into the trunk of his Mercedes. They did not have a chance to snap the license plate number, which may play to our advantage.”
“And we’re sure it was Leanna in the trunk?” I ask, but I already know the answer, and my stomach feels sick.
