“Luca, put us on the expressway,” I said.

“We avoid the local districts.”

“If Kane has the transit police in his pocket, they will be looking for this van.”

Luca nodded, shifting the gear stick and steering us back onto the slick asphalt.

The snow was thick now, a heavy white blanket that muffled the sound of the city.

We drove in silence for twenty minutes, leaving the derelict towers behind.

The high-rises of the Loop faded into the gray haze, replaced by the low, industrial skeletons of the south harbor.

The air inside the van grew colder as we neared the lake.

I reached into my inner pocket and felt the heavy leather cover of my family’s ledger.

It was thick, bound in dark calfskin, containing thirty years of names, dates, and bank routing numbers.

It was the blueprint of the Moretti empire.

Every bribe, every shipment, and every drop of blood we had spilled or paid for was recorded in those pages.

I had carried it with me since the day my father died.

Now, it felt like a block of lead against my ribs.