"Except us."
"Except us."
Silence settles. Heavy. Oppressive.
I open my eyes. Look at Igor.
"Tell me about the rumors."
Igor straightens. "There's talk. Street level. A new player in Chicago. Someone calling himself Smoke."
"How reliable?"
"Not very. Third-hand information. Whispers. Nothing concrete."
"What are they saying?"
"That he arrived recently. Within the last few months. That he's building something. Recruiting. Making moves."
"What kind of moves?"
"Small ones. Quiet ones. Nothing that would attract attention from the major families."
I lean forward. "Until now."
"Until now," Igor agrees.
"And no one's seen him? No one knows what he looks like?"
"If they do, they're not talking."
I slam my fist on the desk. The laptop jumps. The crack in the screen spreads.
"This is insane. He attacks my club. Kills my men. Takes my woman. Uses my property. And I don't even know his fucking face."
"Vittoria saw him."
"Vittoria saw a man in a warehouse. We don't know if that was really him. Could have been another intermediary."
"She said he called himself Smoke."
"Anyone can claim a name."
Igor doesn't respond. He knows I'm right.
I stand again. Can't sit still. The rage builds. Builds. Needs somewhere to go.
"He knew my warehouse," I say. Repeat it. "He knew the codes. He knew when to strike. Where to strike. How to strike. He orchestrated an attack that killed twenty-three trained soldiers without touching a single civilian."
"Yes."
"That's not luck. That's not even skill. That's intelligence. Deep intelligence."
"You think we have a leak."
"I know we have a leak." I turn. Face him. "Someone in our organization. Or the Sartoris'. Someone close enough to know details. Schedules. Locations. Codes."
Igor's expression darkens. "If that's true?—"
