An Immersive Tale of Death, Deceit, Blackmail, Bribery, and Other Nefarious Schemes
A Jack Dylan Adventure
By Dixon Kinqade
This is a work in progress. It's a complete first draft. It requires editing and polishing.
Companion Material
Murder at the Four Deuces (Double Entendre Songs)
Murder at the Four Deuces (Video Game Songs)
Chapter 1: This Dame Is Trouble
⚜️ Chicago, Illinois. Thursday - May 27, 1920. ⚜️
The city is hot tonight, thick and heavy like a wool blanket. As if the place itself, the bricks and the asphalt are feverish, coming down with something. I'm at my office in one of the many anonymous buildings which lurk in the dark corners of the city. I'm at my desk, minding my own business, and that's when she walks in.
She is a sultry temptress with smoldering brown eyes and stunning good looks. She has long jet-black hair and lashes to match. With blue eye shadow and those pouting pastel pink lips, I can't help but wonder if those lips taste like cotton candy. I can only imagine... and do just that.
She saunters in, swaying from side to side like ninety-five pounds of warm smoke. She moves with the graceful easy swing of a satisfied leopard. For a small leopard, she has pretty good spots, too.
That's when I notice she has legs and I'm willing to bet they're the kind of legs that go all the way... down to her feet. She's a petite 1901 panther model with just the right amount of curves in all the right places. She looks good standing there in a blue satin dress and it reminds me of a well-tailored fig leaf. It's one of those tight-fitting numbers that make a bathing suit look like a toga.
She's the kind of girl who, the first time you meet her, you know you're seeing her too often. To make matters worse, she looks at me like I'm made entirely of chocolate... and I like it.
This dame is trouble and I know it. I have a bad habit of sinking myself hip deep into trouble and she knows it. There is an instant attraction between the two of us. I want her. She wants me to want her and we both know it.
I put that thought aside for the moment and move on, because that's my job. That's what I do... That's who I am.
She begins to introduce herself and that's when I notice a dimple in her cheek, which melts in her mouth when she opens it to speak. I'm so busy lusting after her that I haven't heard a single word she's said. So, I ask her to sit down and tell me more over a bottle of scotch.
I hand her a glass. She takes a sip. Then sets it down on the desk. It's my best whiskey and as far as I'm concerned, she can have all she wants.
I don't see a ring on her finger. So, I tell her that she's breathtakingly beautiful. She tells me that she already has a man. I tell her, she looks like the kind of girl who could use two.
That might have insulted her. She probably wants to slap my face and I wouldn't blame her if she did, but she doesn't. So I move on, because that's my job. That's what I do... That's who I am.
I ask her what it is she thinks I can do for her. To which she replies, "Word on the street is you're the best dick in town."
I can't help but chuckle. She immediately realizes that my mind is in the gutter and turns about three shades of red. When she recovers from her embarrassment, she quickly corrects her statement.
"I mean private detective."
Her voice is warm, soft, and velvety smooth. It reminds me of a furnace full of warm marshmallows.
"I know what you meant," I say, "but you're right, you know... on both accounts."
This time, she can't help but chuckle. Obviously, she's warming up to my irresistible charm and sparkling personality. Feeling the ice has been sufficiently broken, I decide to move on, because that's my job. That's what I do... That's who I am.
"I like your office, Jack," she continues.
"Thanks."
"The view is wonderful."
"It certainly is from where I'm sitting," I say with a mischievous grin. "What's on your mind, doll?"
"Big Jim requested that I hand-deliver this to you, personally."
That's when she pulls out a fancy engraved linen envelope. She hands it to me. I take it, open it, and find...
YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED
TO THE GRAND OPENING OF
THE FOUR DEUCES NIGHTCLUB
WHEN: May 28, 1920
WHERE: The Four Deuces 2222 South Wabash Avenue Chicago, IL
TELEPHONE: Wabash-2222
James 'Big Jim' Colosimo, in partnership with Johnny 'The Fox' Torrio and his wife, are hosting what is certain to be the event of the season. This grand opening celebration is to take place tomorrow night and Big Jim has an important announcement to make during these festivities.
The creme de la creme of 'The Family' will be attending this extravagant occasion. New York's Boss of Bosses, Salvatore 'Lucky' Luciano, is in town and will be in attendance. Congressman William Cheatham and Chicago's very own Mayor Bill Thompson shall be there as well. It's certain to be an exciting evening for all!
Graciously yours,
James Colosimo
Johnny and Madame Torrio
P.S. Stringent security measures will be in place for this event. That means no packing of heat is allowed.
And then she's gone. Like smoke. Like trouble. Like the best kind of bad idea.
At least, that's how I remember it. That's certainly how I'd prefer to recount the tale, if an opportunity ever presented itself. To be honest, I probably read a story like that in some pulp magazine. Unfortunately, the truth is far less romantic than such stories would lead you to believe.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 2: The Perfect Storm
⚜️ Chicago, Illinois. Friday - May 28, 1920. ⚜️
I glance at the heavens, toward a darkening horizon. The gray sky holds a dangerous electrical charge, which threatens to unleash a torrent of fury at any moment. It's going to rain soon and I can already feel increasing pressure in the air.
I can smell, almost taste, the imminent storm approaching. Walking toward my destination, I flinch as the echo of booming thunder rolls through my body. Again, I turn my attention skyward and a flash of bright blue lightning shatters the skyline.
Seconds later, large drops of cold rain splatter against my exposed skin. Relentless waves of rain pound the brick-paved street and rapidly fill the gutters. The heavy downpour soon makes walking hazardous and a muttered curse escapes my lips. I increase the pace and urgency of my strides.
Nearing my intended destination, I contemplate what exciting opportunities this night may offer to one such as myself. Anticipation electrifies my nerves. My body tingles with expectancy and my heart flutters rapidly with an almost queasy anxiety as I reach the objective.
The Four Deuces rises from the wet pavement like a relic that refuses to die, a hulking Victorian giant wedged into the south-side streetscape. Its ground floor is all rough muscle and menace, great rusticated limestone blocks stacked in heavy courses, each face pitted and furrowed by a century of rain, soot, and neglect. Deep channels between the stones hold shadows the streetlights can't quite reach, making the whole base look less like a facade and more like the outer wall of some urban fortress.
At the center, the main archway dominates everything, a tall, cavernous curve of stone that feels less like an entrance and more like a yawning mouth. Classical voussoirs radiate outward from a thick, jutting keystone, the edges softened by time but still carrying a certain hard authority. Above them, a band of carved stonework, scrolls, leaves, and obscure symbols, clings to the facade like the last remnants of a forgotten respectability. Within that arch, the doorway recedes into darkness, a heavy wood door reinforced with iron straps and scarred with age, almost entirely swallowed by shadow. In the dim light and steady drizzle, it looks like the opening of a cave where only the invited ever return.
On either side of that great arch, the symmetry of the building plays out in two tall, boarded-up bays, once proud storefront windows, now sealed and silent. The battered planks, stained by water, hint at an attempt to pretend this place is abandoned. But the stance of the building, the way the stone holds itself, betrays the lie. Behind those blind panels, something is very much alive.
Above the coarse, fortress-like ground floor, the building refines itself into a more classical Victorian elegance. The stone gives way to smoother masonry and brick, dressed in decorative moldings and painted trim that has long since started to peel. Ornate arched windows march up the facade in orderly rows, their frames crowned with carved lintels and delicate cornices. Some panes are cracked, others filmed over with grime, but curtains and the occasional flicker of light betray their continued use.
Iron fire escapes cling to the upper stories like black skeletal vines, slender landings, narrow ladders, and zigzagging stair flights bolted into the masonry. Their railings are a lattice of rusted scrollwork, delicate once, now eaten at the edges by rust and years of Chicago winters. Rainwater drips rhythmically from their steps, pattering onto the sidewalk below and tracing dirty streaks down the stone.
Just above the heavy archway, a grand balcony projects from the facade, supported by ornate stone brackets that curl like frozen waves. Its wrought-iron balustrade is a tangle of scrolls and fleur-de-lis, chipped and oxidized, but still undeniably graceful. On some nights, cigarette embers glow briefly along that railing, tiny red planets hanging over the street before winking out and falling into the dark.
The cornice line at the roof is a final flourish, a crown of elaborate moldings stepping out from the brick, a rhythm of dentils, brackets, and layered ledges now streaked with black from generations of coal smoke and exhaust. Gargoyle-like downspouts jut from the corners, their mouths long dried of water but still leering down at the street.
In the rain, the whole structure seems to breathe. Water tracks down the stone in glossy veins, catching the weak light and making the building shimmer in places, as though it's waking up. The air around it smells of wet stone, old wood, and the faint trace of cigarette smoke that never quite leaves the mortar. Cars roll past quickly. Their drivers not daring to linger and the few pedestrians on the block keep their distance, crossing the street a half block early.
The Four Deuces doesn't announce itself with signs or neon. It doesn't need to. It is a presence, an understanding. Beneath that yawning archway, somewhere behind that heavy door and those boarded windows, is a world that respectable people pretend doesn't exist, low jazz and laughter spilling over the clink of glasses, whispered deals over smoky tables, the soft rustle of silk and the hard glint of guns.
It is everything I'd expect an illicit south-side speakeasy to be, cloaked in shadows, propped up by illicit money and covert sins, luxurious decadence concealed behind the polite bones of Victorian architecture. The Four Deuces stands there in the rain, wearing its history like a tailored coat, respectable on the surface, rotten at the seams, and utterly, irresistibly alive.
I step into the vestibule, shaking off the rain like a stray dog. The air in the entry is cooler, smelling of damp wool and expensive tobacco. A man the size of a meat locker blocks the inner door.
"Invitation." He grunts.
I flash the engraved envelope. He glances at it, then at me. "Arms out, Dylan. House rules. No heat."
I sigh and raise my arms. "I feel safer already. You checking for guns or just looking for a date, pal?"
“Funny!” He replies sarcastically. Then pats me down with hands like catcher's mitts, tapping down my ribs, my waist, the small of my back, and checking my ankles. He was thorough. He finds nothing because I'm not stupid enough to bring a piece to Colosimo's party.
"Clean," he mutters, stepping aside. "Coat check's on the left. Don't cause trouble, Dylan. We got respectable folk inside."
"I'm the soul of discretion," I lie.
I hand my cashmere trench coat, which is already creating a puddle on the carpet, to a girl with bright red lipstick and eyes that have seen too much for twenty. She takes it with a smile.
"Wet night." She says, sliding a rectangular brass chit across the counter.
“A deluge. Keep that close for me. I might need to make a quick exit."
"I'll keep it right up front." She winks and flashes a flirty grin.
I push through heavy velvet curtains, the color of dried blood. Noise assaults me, a wall of brass, laughter, and clinking glass. The main room of the Four Deuces is a masterpiece of illicit money, a cavern of smoke and golden light. Chandeliers drip crystal tears from the ceiling, casting an ethereal haze over the crowd. The air is thick with jazz, illegal booze, and perfume. The scent of a thousand bad decisions waiting to be made.
The band is swinging hard, pushing out a rhythm that throbbs in the floorboards. Joe 'King' Oliver on the cornet, hitting notes that could strip paint. But the real show isn't on the stage. It's at the tables.
I pause to scan the room. It's habitual, routine, reflex. Know the exits, know the players. Tonight, the players are all here. The room is a chessboard and the pieces are moving.
In the center, holding court, is Big Jim Colosimo. He's impossible to miss, a mountain of a man, wearing a white suit that costs more than my office building, dripping with diamonds. There's a reason folks call him 'Diamond Jim'. He's laughing, loud and boisterous, playing the benevolent emperor, one hand wrapped around a champagne flute, the other resting, possessively, on the shoulder of his fiancée, Dale Winter.
She looks like a porcelain doll next to a bear, smiling that stage smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Behind them, hovering like a thundercloud in grim gray silk, is a woman I don't recognize. She watches Big Jim's hand on Dale with the cold, dead stare of a sniper.
Toward the back, near the dance floor, sits Johnny 'The Fox' Torrio. He's small, neat, and terrifyingly still. He's the opposite of Jim, quiet, contained. While Big Jim plays the room, Johnny watches it. He's the accountant of death, calculating the overhead. Next to him sits his wife, Madame Anna.
She's royalty in this world. Elegant, poised, wearing a gown that says "I own this joint" without shouting it. She's nodding at something Johnny is saying, but her eyes are scanning the room, same as me. They're partners, those two, in every sense.
Al Capone moves through the crowd like a shark in a goldfish bowl. He's smiling, shaking hands, playing the gracious manager, but I notice the way subordinates stiffen when he passes. He not mingling. He's patrolling.
He stops to whisper something to a reprobate gambler I recognize as Frank Costello. Costello is sitting with Samantha Colosimo, Big Jim's daughter. They look cozy. At the next table, Mike 'The Greek' Potson is sweating through his collar, watching them. The air around that triangle is thick enough to choke on.
I see the politicians, too. Congressman Cheatham is laughing too hard at a joke from Victoria Moresco, Big Jim's ex-wife. That's a dangerous table. Victoria looks like she's sharpening a knife in her mind.
In the shadows, Vincenzo Cosmano is quietly drinking with his wife, Bianca. The Black Hand, here? Bold move.
Near the stage, in a quiet corner, sits Mamma Colosimo. Big Jim's mother. She's wearing simple pearl earrings and a single-strand necklace, traditional, understated. Old-world Italian elegance. But she looks small, almost forgotten. She's knitting. Needles clicking softly, yarn moving through her fingers. A blanket spread across her lap, substantial, complex. Creating something that takes months while she watches everything. People walk past without noticing her. Just the old woman in the corner. The mother. The one who doesn't matter.
But I know better. In this business, the ones who don't matter are usually the ones who matter most.
I casually stroll to the bar and turn my back to watch the tank. It is a shark tank, alright. Every species of predator in Chicago was swimming in this room, smiling and clinking glasses while they measure each other for coffins.
Then I see her. That stunning femme fatale who'd delivered the invitation yesterday.
If she had looked dangerous in my office, she looks positively lethal now, wearing a silver gown that shimmers like mercury, cut low enough to be felonious. She's not walking. She's prowling.
She's working the room. Moving through the tables, she leans in. Whispering to a high-roller, her hand lingers on his shoulder. Then slips away before he can grab it. She moves differently than the other girls. She moves like she knows where the bodies are buried... because she helped dig the holes.
She stops at the Torrio table, leans down and says something to Johnny. He doesn't look up, but a hand tightens on his water glass. A muscle in his jaw tenses.
She straightens and looks across the table at Madame Anna. The two women lock eyes. It isn't a glare. It's something colder. An acknowledgment. An assessment. Anna doesn't blink, just watches with indifferent calm.
She flashes a small, sharp, victorious smirk, a challenging little thing, then turns away. She scans the room. Her eyes find mine.
Our eyes meet across the smoky room. She pauses for a brief moment. A smile touches her lips. It's not the professional smile bestowed upon that high-roller, but something more genuine, more intimate, private.
She crosses the room toward me. Not hurrying. Not hesitating. Moving with the inevitability of a closing trap.
She stops at my elbow. Appears like smoke, disappears like a thought.
"Enjoying the party, Mr. Dylan?"
"It has its charms."
"Everyone has charms." She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something expensive, something dangerous. "The trick is knowing which ones are real."
Before I can respond, she's gone. Moving to another table. Another mark. Another secret to collect. I watch her go, wondering what game she's playing. And wondering if I'm already a piece on the board.
"You look like a man watching a fire," a voice says from behind me.
I turn. Bruno, the bartender, polishes a glass with the rhythmic indifference of a man who had seen everything. I recognize him from before Prohibition hit. He tended bar here when this place was still legal. Some things don't change, even when the law does.
"Just admiring the architecture, Bruno."
"Careful, Jack," he mutters, not looking at me. "The foundation's rotten."
"Yeah, but what a facade."
Bruno simply shakes his head in disappointed annoyance. Still not looking at me, he asks, "You want I should set you up with the usual?"
"I'd certainly appreciate it."
The lights flicker, just for a second, a dip in voltage dimming those chandeliers. Nobody seems to notice and the band doesn't miss a beat.
"Big night, huh?"
"Huge," Bruno agrees, pouring my drink. "Everybody who's anybody, or wants to be, is here."
Again, the lights flicker. Bruno glances at an electric bulb. "Storm's hitting the lines."
"Let's hope that's the only thing that sparks tonight," I say, lifting my glass.
But I know better. I look back at the room, at Johnny watching that stunning femme fatale in her silver dress, at Anna watching Johnny, at Capone watching everyone. I see envelopes being passed under tables, tight smiles, furtive and desperate eyes.
Big Jim stands up, tapping a spoon against his glass. The band quiets down. The room turns to face him. He beams, looking for all the world like a king on his throne.
"Friends!" he bellows, his voice booming without a microphone. "Welcome to the Four Deuces!"
The applause is polite, but underneath it, I hear the tension. It's humming like a high-tension wire. Something is about to snap.
Outside, the thunder cracks again, closer this time. A warning, sounding less like weather and more like artillery fire. The kind of night where God turns his back and the devil pulls up a chair.
I take a drink. The whiskey burns, but not enough to warm the chill running down my spine. This isn't just a party. It's a powder keg. And Big Jim is lighting matches.
In the center of the room, Big Jim taps a spoon against his champagne glass. The sharp *ting-ting-ting* cuts through the chatter.
"Friends! A Toast!" he bellows, his face flush with excitement and drink. "Welcome to the Four Deuces! Tonight marks the beginning of a new and prosperous future for all of us!"
The lights flicker again, longer this time. Shadows stretch from the corners, reaching for the center of the room.
Big Jim raises his glass high. "To the future!"
"To the future," the crowd echoes.
I drink, but I'm not done watching. Not yet. The toast is done, but Big Jim hasn't made his big announcement. That's coming.
I scan the room one more time. Johnny is still at his table, but his eyes are moving. Calculating. Anna is standing near the bar, watching. Not watching Big Jim. Watching the crowd. Watching for trouble.
Big Jim clears his throat. "Friends, I have an important announcement!"
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 3: Darkness and Death
The blackout doesn't come gradually. One moment I'm watching Big Jim raise his glass for his announcement, the next, nothing. Total darkness.
The lights flicker. Once. Twice.
Then the thunder cracks outside, a violent, tearing sound that shakes the floorboards.
The lights flare bright, blindingly white for a second, then die. Total darkness. Not just darkness. The kind of heavy, suffocating black you only get in a windowless room or a sealed tomb.
For a heartbeat, there's breathless silence. Then the chaos begins. Gasps, groans, nervous giggles. A shriek, short and sharp.
"Hey!"
"Watch it!"
"My drink!"
"Get off me, you ox!"
Nervous laughter ripples through the dark, edgy and brittle. A glass shatters on the floor. A woman screams, short and sharp.
I stay put, my back against the solid mahogany bar. I close my eyes, pointless, really, and listen.
"I'm on it!" Bruno announces. His voice is close, right beside me, followed by the heavy thud of a bar flap being lifted, and footsteps scrambling away.
The sounds of the room amplify. The rustle of expensive fabric. The clatter of chairs being bumped. A lighter flares somewhere to my left, casting a brief ghostly illumination on a cluster of frightened faces before flickering out.
I count the seconds. One... two... ten... twenty...
The darkness stretches, feeling longer than it is. The air grows hot, stifling. Expensive perfume mixes with the sharp tang of ozone and the stale reek of fear.
"Stay calm, everyone!" Big Jim's voice, trying to hold the room.
Then, snap. The lights blaze back on.
The room blinks, dazzling. People shield their eyes, laughing with relief. The band kicks immediately into a fast number, trying to patch over the awkwardness with rhythm. Good luck with that. You can't patch over a murder with a trumpet solo. Not that any of us know that yet.
I scan the room.
Big Jim is still standing, looking annoyed but relieved. Capone is by the front door, hand inside his jacket, looking ready to shoot the storm. Johnny is sitting calmly, lighting a fine cigar.
Bruno bursts up from the basement, dusting off his hands. "Got it! Main fuse blew. We're good!"
"Good man!" Big Jim shouts. He looks around, trying to regain momentum. The crowd is settling back into their seats, drinks being refilled, conversations resuming. "Now, where was I?"
The room is still active. People are moving, talking, drinking. The blackout disrupted the flow, but it didn't stop it.
Big Jim raises his glass again. He's trying to recapture the moment, to get back to his announcement. The room turns to him, expectant. They want to hear what he has to say.
"Friends!" he bellows, his voice carrying. "Tonight marks the beginning of a new era. A new partnership. A new future..."
Then I see it.
A woman emerges from the southwest hallway. She's not a guest, too plain, too professional. Dark dress, hair pulled back. She moves with purpose, scanning the room until her eyes land on Capone.
She approaches him near the front door. Capone's expression is casual, relaxed, but as she leans in and whispers something, I see the shift. His shoulders tense. His hand drops from his jacket. His face goes from affable host to something harder, more alert.
My detective instincts kick in. Something's wrong.
The woman steps back. Capone nods once, curtly, then follows her toward the southwest hallway. They disappear into the corridor.
The room hasn't noticed. Big Jim is still speaking. The band plays on. Glasses clink. Laughter rings hollow.
I track Capone's absence. Counting seconds. Watching the hallway entrance.
"...and I'm pleased to announce..." Big Jim continues.
One minute. Two. The announcement is building. Big Jim is building to his climax.
Then Capone reappears. His face is controlled, but I see the urgency underneath. He moves directly to Big Jim's table, where Big Jim is mid-speech, gesturing to the crowd.
"...my retirement and the handover..."
Capone doesn't wait. He steps up, interrupting, leaning in close to whisper urgently in Big Jim's ear.
The room notices. The interruption is visible. Big Jim's face changes mid-sentence. Annoyance first, who interrupts the boss? Then concern. Then calculation. The look of a man who's just been handed a problem that can't wait.
Big Jim's smile doesn't leave his face, not completely. He maintains the facade. But something has changed. The energy. The moment. It's gone.
Big Jim cuts the announcement short. "We'll continue this later, friends. Enjoy the evening. Have another drink on the house."
The room is confused. Murmurs ripple through the crowd. What happened? Why the interruption? But Big Jim is already moving, finishing his conversation with the aldermen, polite smiles, handshakes, then making his way across the floor, heading in my direction.
The machinery of control is activating. I see Capone signal to his boys, subtle hand gestures. They take positions near the exits.
The room hasn't fully realized it yet, but they're locked in. Nobody's leaving. Not until Big Jim says so.
Big Jim stops at the bar, close enough that I can smell the expensive cologne and the faint sweat underneath.
"Jack." His voice. Low. Controlled. But there's something underneath, urgency. Panic trying to stay hidden. "We have a situation. Medical incident. I need you to investigate. Quietly."
I don't ask questions. Not yet. I just nod.
"Where?"
"Ladies' room. Southwest corridor. Capone will show you."
I set my drink down. The rye tastes like ash now anyway.
"One more thing, Jack." His hand on my arm. Firm. Warning. "This stays in-house. No police. No outside narrative. You understand?"
"I understand."
"Good." His voice tightens. "Find out what happened. Find out who. But remember... the reputation of this establishment is paramount. Keep it clean. Keep it quiet."
I move toward the southwest hallway. Capone is already there, waiting. His face is stone.
"This way," he says, and leads me down the corridor.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
Chapter 4: The Ladies' Inconvenience
Capone leads me down the southwest hallway. It's narrower than the main room, dimmer, more private. The sounds of the party fade behind us like a radio being turned down.
We pass a few closed doors, offices, probably. Then Capone stops at an open doorway.
"Ladies' lounge," he says, his voice flat. "Through there is the convenience area. That's where she is."
I step into the lounge. It's a small parlor, elegant but functional. Plush chairs for waiting. Mirrors on the walls for touch-ups. A woman in a dark dress sits in one of the chairs, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The restroom attendant. Her face is pale, but she's holding herself together. Professional, even in shock.
She doesn't look at me. Her eyes stay fixed on the floor.
I move past her, through another doorway, into the actual restroom. Stalls line one wall, vanities on the other. The air smells of lavender water.
One stall door is closed. Latched.
The stall is at the end, farthest from the door. I approach it slowly. I push the door. It doesn't budge. Latched from the inside.
I kneel, looking under the door. I can see feet beneath the door. Women's shoes. Expensive. French heels. She didn't dress for dying. Nobody ever does.
The body is seated on the toilet, slumped forward slightly. Head down. The position looks almost natural, almost like someone who's passed out or fallen asleep.
I stand, examining the latch. It's a simple bolt mechanism. It's engaged from the inside. But there's something wrong with the angle. The door doesn't quite sit flush.
I take out the brass coat-check chit, slide it between the door and the frame, near the latch. A few quick twists and the bolt gives way.
The door swings open.
I step into the stall. It's a small space. I don't touch her. Not yet. I just look.
There's no obvious ligature, but I see marks on her neck. Faint, but there. A line of bruising, darker where something pressed against the soft flesh.
Her face is peaceful. Eyes closed. No scratches. No defensive wounds on her hands. French manicured nails, with pastel pink and white lacquer, are intact.
A small beaded clutch sits on the floor beside her, fallen open. I crouch, careful not to touch it, and peer inside. Lipstick. Compact. A few folded bills. But there's an imprint in the satin lining, something rectangular was there. Something that's been taken.
"Staged," I say aloud.
Big Jim appears in the doorway behind me, wiping sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief. "What do you mean, staged? What are you talking about, Jack?"
"Someone positioned her. Like she was just sitting there. Feet placed just so. Stall door latched from inside. Whoever did this wanted it to look occupied. Wanted to delay discovery. Buy some time."
"Time for what?" His voice booms. Impatient.
"To delay discovery. Get away. Mix back into the crowd." I step back out. "Whoever did this is still in the building, Jim. You might want to batten down the hatches."
"The boys are already on it." Jim's tone is grim. Heavy. Final.
Johnny Torrio appears in the doorway. He's calm, almost too calm. He glances at the body, then at Jim, then at me.
"What's the problem, Jim?" Johnny's voice. Smooth. Low. Measured. Always controlled.
"She's dead, Johnny!" Jim's voice snaps. Loud. Angry.
Johnny doesn't flinch. Steps closer. Looks at the body. Clinical detachment. Makes the hair on my arms stand up. Turns to me. "Jack. You're working it?"
"I am."
"Good." Pause. "We keep it that way. No police. Handle this in-house. Find out who's to blame. But remember... the reputation of this establishment is paramount. We do not need a scandal on opening night."
"I think the dead body is the scandal, Johnny."
He gives me a cold smile. "Only if people know it's a murder. If it's a heart attack... tragic, but not criminal."
"Hard to sell a heart attack with ligature marks on her neck."
"Then we find the person who put them there." Pause. "And we deal with them."
Capone returns, filling the doorway like a bad omen. "Doors secured. Boys are on the exits. Nobody gets out without my say-so."
"Good." Jim's voice. The word lands like a gavel. He turns to me. "Jack, what do you need?"
"Her name. Who is she? I need to know what we're dealing with."
"Dianna Valentine." Big Jim's voice. Heavy. "She's a hostess. Upstairs."
Upstairs. That word lands with weight. This building has multiple floors. Multiple functions.
"She works for you?"
"She works for me..." Pause. "More precisely, for Madame Anna. Anna manages that part of the operation."
I catch the distinction. Not "Anna's assistant" or "works with Anna." Works "for" Anna. There's a hierarchy here, and I'm getting a glimpse of it.
"What exactly is upstairs?"
Jim's eyes flick to Johnny, then back to me. "Private rooms. Hospitality. The kind of hospitality that requires discretion." He doesn't elaborate... and I don't need him to.
"And the third floor? The fourth?"
Jim's expression tightens. He glances at Johnny again, who gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Third floor is for games. Card games, poker, blackjack, faro. Roulette. Craps. The kind of games that require... privacy. And discretion."
"And the fourth floor?"
"The top floor serves dual purposes. It's our executive headquarters. Johnny maintains his private office there." Jim pauses, choosing his words carefully. "It also provides a panoramic view of the Wabash corridor. Useful for keeping an eye on things, to monitor the street for potential raids or rival incursions."
"How long has she worked here?"
"A few months. Anna brought her in when we were getting this place ready. Said she had experience. Knew the business." Jim's voice tightens slightly. "She was good at it. Knew how to handle... clients."
"Any problems? Conflicts?"
"In this business, Jack, there's always tension, always jockeying for position." He looks at me, and for a moment, I see something in his eyes. Something he's not saying. Something that suggests he knows more than he's letting on. "Men take their cut. They skim. They think they're clever. But I know. I always know. It's the cost of doing business. As long as they don't get too greedy, as long as the operation keeps running, I let them eat. Foxes don't ask permission. They just take. And as long as the fox doesn't gut the henhouse, I let him eat."
He pauses, his eyes holding mine. Calculating. "But to kill over it? That's something else entirely. That crosses a line. That I won't tolerate."
Dianna Valentine. Hostess upstairs. Works for Anna. Brought in by Anna. There's a story here, and it starts with Madame Anna Torrio.
But first, I need to talk to the attendant. She found the corpse. I need to know what she saw, when she saw it.
Capone inquires, "What about the body, boss?" His tone suggests he already knows the answer.
"Move it out of sight. Let's keep it somewhere safe, for now."
Capone gives a terse and knowing nod of acknowledgement, then vanishes in an instant.
I step into the ladies' lounge. The attendant still sits in that plush chair, hands folded in her lap. From a distance, she appears composed. Up close, I see the tremor in her fingers, knuckles white where they grip each other.
I sit close, keep my voice low, sympathetic, solicitous. "What's your name?"
"Margaret." Her voice holds steady, but just barely. Professional training fighting raw nerves. "Margaret O'Brien."
"Tell me what happened, Margaret."
She takes a breath, the kind you take before stepping off a cliff. "I was on my break. When the lights went out, I was in the kitchen, having a cup of tea. When they came back on, I returned to my station here in the lounge." She gestures around the small room. "I do routine checks of the convenience area after any disruption. Standard procedure."
She pauses. I let her gather herself.
"I entered the ladies convenience. I noticed one stall was locked. Occupied. I waited a moment, thinking someone was inside. But there was no sound. No movement." Her voice tightens, cracks slightly. "I bent down, looked under the door..."
Her eyes meet mine. They're the color of wet slate. But I see something else there. Horror. The kind that doesn't fade.
"I saw her. Sitting there. Not moving. Her head... tilted. Her eyes... closed. Too still. Too quiet. I knew immediately something was wrong. I knew she was... gone."
A hand goes to her throat, unconsciously. A reflex. The body remembers what the mind wants to forget.
"What did you do?"
"I exited immediately. Went directly to Mr. Capone."
"When did you return from your break?"
"Just after the lights came back on. Around 7:30, I'd say."
A timeline is forming. "Thank you, Margaret, that's all for now. You've been a big help."
Relief washes over her face like a tide. She's done her part.
Capone returns with two of his boys, moving with purpose. They're here to relocate the body, make it disappear, keep the scandal contained. They pass, heading into the restroom. Business as usual for them, as though dealing with dead bodies is a routine occurrence that's handled with experienced efficiency.
Capone stops and looks at me. "Bruno wants a word with you, Dylan. Says it's important."
I raise an eyebrow. "Bruno? What's he got?"
"Didn't say. Just said he needs to talk to you. Now."
I follow Capone back toward the main room, but as we approach the hallway entrance, I see two of his boys blocking the corridor. They're big, quiet, the kind of muscle that doesn't need to speak. Just stand there. Just block.
A woman in a sequined dress approaches, looking confused. "Excuse me, I need to..."
"Facilities are being serviced, ma'am," one of the boys says, polite but firm. "Temporary closure. Should be available shortly."
"Serviced?" Her voice rises slightly. "How long? This is ridiculous."
"Won't be long," the other boy says, not moving. "Please return to the main room. We'll announce when it's available."
She huffs, turns away, but I see the suspicion in her eyes. She knows something's wrong. They all do.
More women arrive, forming a small line. Confusion turns to irritation. Irritation turns to suspicion.
"What's going on?" one asks, voice sharp.
"Did you see the detective?" another whispers to her companion.
"I heard someone's sick," a third adds, not quite quiet enough.
The whispers spread. The line grows. The boys hold their ground, but I can see the facade cracking. You can't keep a secret in a locked room. Not when people are trapped. Not when they're watching.
The boys can block the hallway, but they can't block the rumors. They can't block the speculation. They can't block the truth from spreading.
I step past them, back into the main room. Behind me, the complaints continue, polite, maintaining decorum. The line grows. The whispers multiply. The gap between public compliance and private understanding widens. The hypocrisy of polite society is on full display.
The guests are playing along, not because they're fooled, but because they understand the game. They maintain the facade while privately acknowledging the truth.
Chapter 5: No One Leaves
I leave the hallway, the image of Dianna's staged body burned into my mind. Back in the main room, the atmosphere has changed. People are still drinking, still smiling, but their eyes are moving. Watching doors. Watching each other. Watching me.
I see the factions forming like animals circling before a fight. The politicians huddle in one corner, backs to the room, voices low. Like they're negotiating a treaty, which they probably are. The mob guys cluster in another corner, hands resting near waistbands where guns would be, if guns were allowed. But they're not. And everyone knows it.
I make my way to the bar. Bruno is behind the stick, but he's not pouring. He's waiting. His eyes find me the moment I step into view. He gives me a quick jerk of his head, then moves toward the front entrance.
I follow him. The bar is crowded, but people part for us. They know something's happening. They can smell it.
Bruno stops near the coat check, close to the front door. The doorman is there, a mountain of muscle in a tuxedo, blocking the exit. And there's a man in an expensive tuxedo, the kind that costs more than most people make in a year, trying to play the important card. It's not working.
"I demand to leave!" The man's voice cuts across the music. "My wife is unwell!"
"Nobody leaves," the doorman says. He's smiling. It's the kind of smile that makes you want to check if your wallet is still in your pocket. "Doctor's orders. Quarantine until we're sure it's not contagious."
"Contagious?" The man's face goes red. "What is this?"
He tries to push past. Big mistake.
The doorman doesn't hit him. He doesn't need to. He just steps in, close enough to kiss, and his voice drops to something barely above a whisper. I can't hear the words from where I'm standing, but I don't need to. The man's face tells the whole story. The color drains away like someone pulled a plug. He goes white, then gray, then steps back like he's been burned.
"Sit down," the doorman says, louder now, voice carrying. "Have a drink."
The man sits.
Just like that.
Bruno pulls me aside, away from the commotion. His face is pale, his hands shaking slightly. "Jack, I found something. When I was down in the basement, fixing the fuse."
"What?"
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper. It's crumpled, like it's been handled, read, refolded. "It was on the floor, right there by the main switch. I picked it up, read it... I didn't know what to do with it. I mean, it says someone was supposed to throw the switch at 7:30, but the lights went out at 7:26. The storm beat them to it."
He hands it to me. I unfold it, smooth the creases against my thigh. The note is typewritten, neat, and precise. Someone who took their time with this. Someone who wanted to be clear.
I read it.
Enclosed, you will find $1,000.
After dinner has been served, Big Jim will be making an announcement. Mr. Colosimo always clinks a glass to get people's attention when he makes an announcement. This should provide you an excellent opportunity to leave the room unnoticed.
Of course, unforeseen circumstances may detain Mr. Colosimo and delay any announcement. In that event, you shall follow these instructions at 7:30 PM precisely and not a minute sooner or later!
You are to proceed to the basement and throw the main switch. I expect you to follow those instructions without fail. If you choose not to do so or tell anyone of this note, you will not leave the celebration ALIVE!"
The threat lands like a hammer. Someone paid a thousand dollars to cut the lights at exactly 7:30, but the lights went out at 7:26. Four minutes early.
The storm beat them to it.
I fold the note, slide it into my inside pocket. It sits there like a weight. A thousand dollars. That's serious money. Serious enough to buy a lot of things. Silence. Darkness. Death. In this town, a grand goes a long way. Unless you're buying honesty. That costs extra.
"Tell me exactly what happened," I say, keeping my voice even. "Start from when the lights went out."
"I was at the bar. Lights flickered, big flicker, like the storm was trying to tear the place apart. Then, pop. Total dark." He gestures vaguely toward the basement, his hand shaking slightly. "I knew it was a fuse. Had to be. I came down here, checked the box. Main fuse was blown. Charred black. I replaced it with a spare from the shelf. Lights came back on."
"Where exactly did you find the note?"
"On the floor, right there by the main switch. Like someone dropped it. Or maybe they were reading it, getting ready to do it, when the storm beat them to it."
"Did you see anyone else down there? Anyone coming down while you were there, or anyone who'd been there before you?"
"No one. Just me." He looks at the floor, then back at me. "I swear, Jack. Just me."
"Alright," I say. "You keep pouring. Keep them happy. And keep this to yourself."
Bruno hesitates. "Jack..." His voice drops. "Is she...?"
"She's gone, Bruno. Keep it to yourself."
He crosses himself, quick and desperate, then hurries back to the bar like the devil is on his heels.
The note mentions the basement. The main switch. I need to see what really happened down there.
I find the stairs near the kitchen, narrow and dim. The steps creak under my weight as I descend, each one groaning like a warning. The air changes, cools, thickens, grows heavy with the weight of secrets buried in stone. Coal dust and damp earth, the smell of foundations that have been holding up secrets for decades. The smell of things that don't want to be found.
The basement stretches out before me, low-ceilinged and shadowed. A tomb of concrete and iron. Exposed pipes run along the walls like veins, carrying water, carrying waste, carrying the lifeblood of the building. Old crates stack in corners, forgotten, abandoned. And in the center, against the far wall, the fuse box sits like a metal heart, still beating, still alive.
I move closer. The floor is cold under my feet. The air is still, stagnant. The kind of silence that makes you want to hold your breath, makes you want to listen for things that shouldn't be there.
The fuse box is an old unit, heavy iron, the kind that belonged to another century. The kind that shouldn't fail, but sometimes does. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes, because someone paid a thousand dollars to make it happen.
I spot the main switch on the wall, separate from the fuse box. A large lever, like something from a steamship, meant to be thrown with both hands. That cuts power to the whole building. One pull, and everything goes dark. One pull, and the whole party becomes a tomb.
I open the box door. The hinges creak. Inside, a fresh fuse sits screwed into place, new and clean. On the floor beneath it, the old fuse lies like a dead thing, blackened and cracked. The storm's victim. Or maybe the storm was just convenient timing for someone else.
I examine the area around the main switch. The floor is concrete, dusty. No footprints. No signs of struggle. Just the spot where Bruno found the note, and now it's in my pocket. A thousand dollars to cut the lights at 7:30. But the lights went out at 7:26. Four minutes early.
I stay down there a moment longer, alone with the shadows. The note burns in my pocket. The weight of it. The wrongness of it. The knowledge that someone planned this. Someone paid for darkness. Someone wanted the lights to go out at exactly the right moment.
The storm beat them to it. Or maybe the storm was just convenient timing for someone else. Someone who didn't need to pay. Someone who just needed the darkness when it came. Someone who was already waiting in the shadows, ready to strike.
The basement feels like a grave. Cold. Silent. Full of secrets that don't want to be told.
I make my way to the bar. Bruno's pouring drinks like his life depends on it. Maybe it does. The room is a pressure cooker, and I've got the lid in my pocket. A note that says someone planned a blackout.
I scan the room, slow and methodical. Every face is a mask, but the masks are slipping. Johnny, sitting alone at a table near the bandstand, cool and collected, but I see him watching. Calculating. Anna, whispering something to a waiter, her hand on his arm, close, intimate, but I see her eyes scanning the room, measuring the damage. Big Jim, at his table, sweating through his white suit.
I find Anna near the kitchen door, speaking quietly with one of the waiters. She's composed, professional, the kind of woman who manages chaos without breaking a sweat. When she sees me approach, she dismisses the waiter with a nod and turns to face me.
"Mr. Dylan," she says. Her voice is even, controlled. "I understand you're investigating."
"I am." I step closer. Close enough to see the details. Her hands are steady. No tremor. Her eyes don't avoid mine. But I notice something, she's not asking questions. Not "Who do you think did it?" Not "What have you found?" She's waiting. Calculating. "I noticed something interesting tonight. About how information flows in this place."
Something shifts in her expression. Just a fraction. A crack in the mask. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, clients talk when they're comfortable. And some people know how to make them comfortable. Dianna was good at that, wasn't she?"
Anna's composure doesn't crack, but I see the calculation happening. She's reassessing. How much do I know? How much did I see? "Dianna was an information broker," she says finally. Not denying. Not confirming. Just stating a fact. "That was part of her value."
"Was it? Or was it her main value? The kind of information that gets people killed?"
Her eyes narrow slightly. "I manage multiple businesses. I observe everything. That's my job."
"Did you observe her crossing lines tonight? Threatening someone? Applying pressure?"
"I observed a woman doing her job," Anna says, her voice sharp now. Controlled, but sharp. "I'm not going to speculate. Speculation creates problems. We have enough problems tonight."
"She was your protégée," I press. "You trained her. Brought her from the Everleigh Club. And now she's dead. Don't you want to know who killed her?"
Anna's hand tightens on her clutch, just slightly. White knuckles. The only sign of strain. "I want this resolved. But I'm not going to hand you a list of suspects. That's how innocent people get hurt. I don't create problems, Mr. Dylan. I solve them. Or I contain them."
"Contain them," I repeat. The word hangs there. "Is that what you're doing now? Containing?"
She looks at me, and for a moment, I see it, the steel underneath the silk. The control. The calculation. "I'm managing a crisis. That's my job. That's what I do."
"Did you see her tonight? Before the blackout?"
"Yes. She was working the floor. Talking to clients. Doing her job." Anna's voice stays even. Too even. "She seemed... normal. Focused. Professional."
"Normal," I say. "Interesting word choice. Most people would say 'alive.'"
Anna's composure wavers, just for a heartbeat. Then it's back. "I'm not going to break down in tears for you, Mr. Dylan. This is a business. People die. We move on. That's how it works."
I nod. Anna's given me little useful about Dianna. But she's told me everything I need to know herself. Her control. Her calculation. Her ability to manage crises. Her lack of emotion.
She's protecting something. Or someone.
"Thank you, Anna. If you think of anything else..."
"Of course." She turns away, dismissing me. Business as usual.
I step away, my mind working. Anna's given me information, but it's surface-level. Professional. Controlled. The kind of answer you give when you don't want to say too much.
But I've got other people to talk to. Other stories to hear. And one of them is going to give me the piece that fits.
I scan the room again. Johnny, sitting alone. Dale and Isabella huddled at the bar. Samantha and Mike, looking guilty. The politicians, the gangsters, the rivals.
One of them is a killer. Maybe more than one.
And I have to find out which one before the pressure blows the roof off this place and takes half of Chicago with it.
I finish my drink. The whiskey burns, but not enough. Nothing ever burns enough in this city.
Time to go to work.
Chapter 6: The Inner Circle
The room is fracturing. I can see it happening, like watching glass crack under pressure. The initial shock has worn off, replaced by something colder, more calculated. Groups are tightening, drawing in on themselves. Eyes are darting. People are counting exits, counting faces, counting chances.
The jazz band has shifted to something slower, moodier. Time passes. The mood darkens. The chandeliers seem dimmer now, the smoke thicker near the ceiling.
It's not a party anymore. It's a holding cell with champagne and jazz.
But everyone maintains the facade. The politicians, the businessmen, the old-money types, they're not panicking. They're not demanding answers. They're maintaining decorum. Polite smiles. Accepting vague explanations. "Medical incident," they'll say if asked. But their eyes are sharp. They know. They understand the rules of the game.
I need to start close to the flame. The family. The people who supposedly loved her, or feared her, or both. In this room, those are often the same thing.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
I'm heading toward Johnny's table when someone steps into my path. Dale Winter. Big Jim's fiancée. The porcelain doll I saw earlier, hanging on Jim's arm with that stage smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
She's not smiling now.
"Mr. Dylan." Her voice is low, urgent. She's positioned herself so that Jim can't see her from his booth. Deliberate. "I need to speak with you."
This is new. Someone seeking me out. Usually, I have to pry words out of people in this room.
"I'm listening."
"Not here." She glances around, checking who's watching. "The alcove by the coat check. Two minutes."
She doesn't wait for my answer. Just turns and walks away, her heels clicking sharp against the floor. Not the passive fiancée anymore. Not the trophy. Something else.
I give it a minute, then follow.
The alcove is shadowed, tucked away from the main room. Dale is waiting, her back against the wall, arms crossed. Defensive. But her eyes are fierce.
"Dianna had something on me," she says without preamble. "On everyone. But on me specifically. Something that could destroy my engagement, my future, everything."
"The affair with Capone."
Her face goes white. Then red. Then something harder. "You know."
"I know a lot of things tonight. What I don't know is what you're trying to tell me."
Dale takes a breath. Steadies herself. I see it then, the steel underneath the porcelain. The daughter of Isabella, who survived the Everleigh Club. The woman who chose to marry a mob boss with her eyes open.
"I'm telling you that I didn't kill her. I wanted to. God help me, I wanted to. When she told me what she knew, what she was going to do with it..." Her voice cracks, but she doesn't break. "But I didn't. I was with my mother when the lights went out. We were at the bar. Together. The whole time."
"That's convenient."
"It's the truth." She meets my eyes. Direct. Unflinching. "I know how this looks. I know what you're thinking. But I'm giving you this voluntarily. No games. No lies. Check with my mother. Check with the bartender. I was there."
I study her. She's scared, but she's not lying. Not about the alibi, anyway.
"Why come to me? Why not wait for me to find you?"
"Because I wanted you to hear it from me first. Before the whispers. Before someone else pointed fingers." She uncrosses her arms. Her hands are shaking. "And because I needed you to know something else."
"What's that?"
"Dianna had a notebook. Small, leather-bound, red. She kept it in her clutch. Names, dates, amounts. Everything she knew about everyone. If you find that notebook..." She trails off. "It changes everything."
A notebook. Physical evidence. The spider's web in tangible form.
"Did you see where she kept it?"
"In her clutch. Always. She never let it out of her sight." Dale's voice drops. "If it's not with her body, someone took it. And whoever has it now... they have power over everyone in this room."
I file this away. The notebook. Dianna's clutch. Someone might have taken it. Someone who now holds all the cards.
"Thank you, Dale. This helps."
She nods, once, sharply. Then she's gone, slipping back into the main room, the porcelain mask sliding back into place. But I've seen what's underneath now. She's not just Jim's trophy. She's a player. A survivor. And she just gave me something valuable without me having to extract it.
That's new. That's interesting. That's dangerous.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
I make my way to Johnny's table. He's sitting near the bandstand, water glass in hand. Anna is standing near the bar, her back to him, but I can see her reflection in the mirror. She's watching him. Always watching.
Johnny doesn't look at her. He's too careful for that. But I see the way his hand rests on his water glass. The way he avoids looking in her direction. The space between them, not physical distance, but something else. A gulf. A tension that hangs in the air like smoke.
I approach Johnny's table. Pull out a chair. The legs scrape like fingernails on a chalkboard. Johnny doesn't look up. Of course, he doesn't. He's been expecting me.
"Johnny," I say, sitting down. "I need to understand what Dianna was. Who she was. What she knew."
Johnny's hand moves. Just slightly. Toward his water glass. A tell. But his eyes meet mine. Direct. Calculating.
"You want to know who killed her," he says. Not a question. A statement.
"I want to know the truth."
"The truth." Johnny's voice is quiet, measured. The kind of voice that cuts through noise. "Dianna Valentine was a spider, Jack. A rat. A venomous viper. She was an information broker with a ledger of secrets in her head. She was squeezing everyone in this room. Everyone. And she was good at it."
I lean forward. "Everyone?"
"Everyone with a secret. Everyone with something to lose. She knew about affairs. She knew about money. She knew about deals. She knew about betrayals. And she used it. She was squeezing everyone."
"Who specifically?"
Johnny shakes his head. "That's the wrong question, Jack. You're asking who had a motive. But she was squeezing everyone. Threatening everyone. Blackmailing everyone. You won't solve this by asking who wanted her dead."
The words land like a hammer. Not hinted at. Not evasive. Direct. Explicit.
I sit back. The list keeps growing. Every name adds another reason, another secret, another thread in the web. Motive won't get me anywhere.
"Then how do I solve it?"
Johnny's eyes hold mine. "Who could kill her quietly? Who could get close without drawing attention? Who was where when the lights went out? And most importantly, who saw what happened? You need someone who SAW it. You need the observer."
"Thank you, Johnny."
He nods. "You're welcome, Jack. Now go find the observer."
I stand.
But before I can move away, Anna approaches. She moves like a queen, elegant and controlled, but I see the tension in her shoulders. The way her eyes cut to Johnny, then to me, then back to Johnny.
"Johnny," she says. Her voice is even, but there's something underneath. "Everything all right here?"
Johnny doesn't look at her. "Fine, Anna. Just talking to Jack."
"About what?"
"About the investigation," I say. "Standard questions. Where everyone was. What they saw."
Anna's eyes meet mine. For a moment, I see it, the calculation. The assessment. But she doesn't break. Doesn't crack. Just watches.
"Of course," she says. "If you need anything else, Mr. Dylan, you know where to find me."
She turns away. Smooth. Unhurried. But I see the way her hand tightens on her clutch.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
I approach Vincenzo Cosmano next. The Black Hand representative. But when I get within ten feet of his table, his wife Bianca rises and blocks my path.
"Mr. Dylan." Her voice is ice. "My husband has nothing to say to you."
"I'm just asking questions. Same as everyone else."
"And my husband has no answers. Not for you. Not for anyone." She doesn't move. Doesn't blink. A wall of silk and steel. "We came to this party as guests. We know nothing about what happened. We saw nothing. We heard nothing. That is all you will get from us."
Behind her, Vincenzo doesn't even look up. He's staring at his drink, pointedly ignoring me. A united front. Complete stonewalling.
"Your husband was seen talking to..."
"Was he? By whom? In this room full of liars and criminals?" Bianca's lip curls. "Good luck finding a credible witness, Mr. Dylan. Now, if you'll excuse us."
She doesn't move aside. She waits for me to leave. It's a dismissal. Complete. Absolute.
I could push. I could make a scene. But there's nothing to be gained here. The Cosmanos have decided to tell me nothing, and they're not going to break. Not tonight. Not in public.
I step back. "If you think of anything..."
"We won't."
Fine. I'll learn about them through other channels. The Guziks already told me about the information network. Bianca just confirmed, through her refusal, that they have something to hide.
Sometimes what people don't say tells you more than what they do.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
I see them before they see me. Dale has returned to the bar, gripping a glass like it's the only thing keeping her from floating away. Capone is near the front door, positioned like a sentinel. They're not together, but they're connected. I can see it in the way Capone's eyes find her across the room. The way Dale's hand goes to her throat when she sees him looking.
Capone moves through the crowd, heading toward the bar. Not directly. Circling. But his destination is clear.
He stops near Dale. Not too close. Respectable distance. But his hand brushes her arm. Just for a second. A touch that lingers.
Dale's face flushes. Not embarrassment. Something else. Something that makes her look away, but her body, her body betrays her. It leans toward Capone even as her mind tells her to pull back.
Then Dale does something unexpected. She turns. Faces Capone directly. Her voice is low but firm.
"Not here. Not now. Not ever again."
Capone's eyebrows rise. Surprise flickers across his face before the mask slides back.
"Dale..."
"I mean it, Al." Her voice doesn't waver. The porcelain has cracked, and underneath is something harder. "Whatever this was, it's over. It has to be."
She turns her back on him. Walks away. Doesn't look back.
Capone stands there for a moment, watching her go. Then he shrugs, almost imperceptibly, and moves back toward his post. A man who's been rejected before. A man who'll survive.
But I saw it. Dale making a choice. Taking control. Ending something before it destroys her completely. That takes courage. That takes steel.
Isabella sees it too. I see her see it. Relief washes over her face, mixed with something else. Pride, maybe. Or hope.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
I'm moving through the crowd when I see them. Samantha Colosimo and Mike Potson. They're in a corner, away from the main crowd. Not touching. Not even looking at each other. But there's something in the way they stand. The way they're positioned. Close. Protective. Like they're guarding each other.
I watch for a moment. Samantha says something, low. Mike responds. Then she reaches out, touches his hand. Just for a second. Quick. Furtive. But I see it. The way his hand closes around hers. The way they both relax, just for a moment.
Not friends. Not business partners. Something else.
I move closer, positioning myself to overhear without being obvious.
"...can't let him find out," Samantha is saying. "Not before the wedding. Not before I'm protected."
"Protected how?" Mike's voice is worried. "If he finds out about the marriage, he'll cut you out. You know that."
"I know. But if we wait... if we wait until after the wedding, until I'm Dale's stepdaughter, then maybe..."
"Maybe what? He'll forgive you for marrying me behind his back? For the embezzlement?"
Embezzlement. The word hits like a hammer. Secret marriage, embezzlement. Secrets stacked on secrets. Samantha's risking everything, her inheritance, her future, her father's wrath, for a man who's been stealing from the family. That's not just a motive. That's desperation. That's love or stupidity or both, and I can't tell which is more dangerous.
I watch them. Two people who've built something together, something fragile, something that could shatter with one wrong word. They're not just hiding a secret. They're hiding a life. A marriage. A future. And they're doing it in plain sight, in a room full of people who would destroy them if they knew.
Frank Costello appears, watches them from a distance. Doesn't approach. Doesn't speak. Just watches. Then he moves on, melting back into the crowd.
The web keeps growing. Secret marriages. Embezzlement. Affairs. Betrayals. The threads keep tangling, pulling tighter, until I can't see where one secret ends and another begins.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
I'm heading toward the bar when I see them. Anna and Johnny. In a corner, away from the crowd. Not touching. Not even looking at each other. But the space between them it's not empty. It's full of things unsaid.
I should keep moving. This isn't my business. But something stops me. The way Anna's hand tightens on her clutch. The way Johnny's jaw clenches. The way they're both holding themselves so still, like any movement might break something.
I find a spot where I can watch without being seen. Not investigation. Just... curiosity. Or maybe something else. Maybe I want to see how people like them, people who've built empires together, who've survived in this city for fifteen years, how they handle this. How they handle each other.
"You're going to let him do this?" Anna's voice is low. Controlled. But there's something underneath. Something that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"Let who do what?" Johnny doesn't look at her. He's watching the room. Always watching. Always calculating.
"Don't play dumb, Johnny. You're not dumb. You're the smartest man in this room, and we both know it. That's why this is happening. That's why she's dead."
Johnny's hand moves. Just slightly. Toward his water glass. A tell. But his voice stays even. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about." Anna's voice drops. Lower. Dangerous. "You know what she was. You know what she knew. You know what she was going to do. And you know what I had to do."
"Anna..."
"Don't." She cuts him off. "Don't say my name like that. Like you're sorry. Like you care. You don't care. You never cared. You just needed someone who understood the game. Someone who wouldn't break when things got hard. Someone who could handle the truth."
"I do care." Johnny's voice cracks. Just for a second. Just enough. "I care about you. I care about us. I care about what we've built."
"Then why?" Anna's voice breaks. "Why her? Why now? Why like this?"
Johnny doesn't answer. He can't. Because there is no answer. Not one that makes sense. Not one that doesn't break everything they've built.
I watch them. Two people who've been partners for fifteen years. Two people who've built an empire together. Two people who understand each other better than anyone else in this room. And I realize something: They're not talking about Dianna. They're talking about themselves. About what they've become. About what they've lost.
This isn't investigation. This is watching a marriage die. And I'm the witness. The one who sees everything but can't do anything about it.
I move away. This isn't my business. Not really. But I file it away anyway. Not as evidence. As understanding. As the thing that makes everything else make sense.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
I step away, scanning the room. That's when I see it.
Jake Guzik is at the bar, but he's not alone. A woman approaches him. Dark hair, expensive dress. Bianca Cosmano. Wife of Vincenzo Cosmano. Black Hand.
She says something to Jake. Low. Urgent. His face goes pale. He looks around, checking if anyone's watching. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out something small. A folded piece of paper. He hands it to her, quick, furtive, like passing contraband.
She takes it, slides it into her clutch without looking. Then she's gone, melting back into the crowd like she was never there.
Jake stays at the bar, but he's shaking. His hand goes to his vest pocket. Pat, pat, pat. The nervous tic. Like a man checking for his heart. I know the feeling. Mine's been in my throat since I walked into this place.
The Black Hand and the Outfit's accountant. That's not a coincidence. That's a network. A betrayal network. Information flowing from the Outfit to the Black Hand through the accountant's wife. This isn't just corruption. This is watching the Outfit bleed secrets to its enemies.
I move through the crowd, positioning myself near the Cosmanos' corner table. They're sitting together, but not touching. Professional distance. Business partners, not just husband and wife.
I find a spot near the bandstand, close enough to hear, far enough to not be obvious. I light a cigarette, lean against the wall, like I'm just taking a break. But my ears are tuned to their conversation.
"...confirmed it," Vincenzo is saying, his voice low but sharp. "Capone. The South Side Bridge. Four of our men."
Bianca nods. "I told you. The information was solid. Caterina doesn't lie when she's scared."
"And the Mayor? The Congressman?"
"Both refused. Too risky. They're already compromised. They won't pay."
Vincenzo's hand tightens on his glass. "Then we need another approach. If they won't pay, we make them pay. One way or another."
"And Dianna?" Bianca's voice drops even lower. "She knew about the network. About Caterina. About everything."
"She's dead. That problem solved itself."
"Or someone solved it for us." Bianca looks around, checking for listeners. I turn away, pretend to watch the band. "If Big Jim finds out we've been buying information from his accountant's wife..."
"He won't. Not if we're careful."
I listen to them. The Cosmanos. The information network. Their plans. Their secrets. Talking about murder like it's business. Talking about betrayal like it's strategic. This isn't just corruption. This is watching two organizations tear each other apart, using information as weapons, using secrets as currency.
Chapter 7: A City on the Take
The air in the club isn't just hot anymore. It's pressurized. Taut. Bodies packed together, nerves wound tight, liquor flowing to calm what can't be calmed. The chandeliers seem dimmer now, the smoke thicker. The air tastes like bad decisions and worse outcomes. Every time the thunder rolls outside, shaking the windows, the tension inside ratchets up another notch.
I need to widen the net. If Dianna was an information broker, she wasn't just trading in love letters. She was trading in the lifeblood of this city... corruption.
I spot Jake 'Greasy Thumb' Guzik sitting near the kitchen doors, looking like a man waiting for a bomb to go off. He's got that look people get when they know the clock is ticking and it's counting down to zero. His wife, Caterina, sits next to him, but she's not sitting still. Her eyes dart around the room like a trapped bird, looking for exits, looking for threats.
I pull up a chair. Jake jumps like I stuck him with a pin. His hand goes to his vest pocket, patting it three times, a nervous tic. Pat. Pat. Pat. Like a prayer. Like a ritual.
"Easy, Jake," I say, keeping my voice low. "Just a friendly chat."
"I got nothing to say, Jack." His voice shakes. He's wiping his upper lip with a napkin that's already soaked through with sweat. Pat, pat, pat. The vest pocket again. Three times. Fast. Desperate.
Caterina's hand moves to his arm, protective. Her fingers dig in. She's not just comforting him, she's trying to stop the patting.
"They open when I say they open, Jake." I lean in, close enough to smell the fear on him. "I heard some interesting things. About money. About books that don't quite add up."
Jake's face goes completely gray. His hands start shaking. Pat, pat, pat. The vest pocket again. Three times. Faster now.
"What books?"
"Books that tell different stories depending on who's reading them. Creative bookkeeping, they call it."
"I... I don't know what you're talking about." His voice cracks. Pat-pat-pat. The tic is accelerating.
I pull the note from my pocket, unfold it, show it to them. "I found this in the basement. Someone paid a grand to cut the lights at 7:30. If you don't give me something useful, I'll tell Big Jim you wrote this. He'll assume you intended to knock him off tonight."
Jake's face goes completely white. Pat, pat, pat. The vest pocket. Three times. Fast. Desperate. "That's not mine. I didn't write that."
"Prove it. Give me something better. Who else was buying? Who else was Dianna squeezing? Otherwise, I'm showing this to Big Jim and letting him draw his own conclusions."
"She knew," Caterina says, her voice sharp. Not denying. Not defending. Just stating a fact. "Dianna knew about the books. About what Jake does. About what we do."
Jake looks at her, panicked. "Caterina, shut up..."
"No." She cuts him off. "She's dead, and they're going to pin it on someone. I'm not going down for this. Not for your books."
"What did she know? What did she want from you?"
Caterina looks at me, and I can see the calculation happening behind her eyes. She knows the game. Information is currency, and right now, she's broke.
She makes a decision.
"Bianca," she whispers.
"Bianca Cosmano. The Black Hand."
"She's been buying." Caterina's voice trembles, but she keeps going. "For months. I sold her scraps. Who's meeting who. When the shipments come in. Outfit secrets, feeding them to the Black Hand through Bianca. We needed the money, Jack. We needed..."
"You're selling Outfit secrets to the Black Hand?" I whistle low. "That's a death sentence, doll."
"But that's not all," Caterina says, desperate. "Dianna discovered it. She found out about the network, me selling to Bianca, Bianca feeding to Vincenzo. She wasn't working with us. She discovered our betrayal and used it against us. She blackmailed Bianca about it. Threatened to expose the whole network unless Bianca paid up."
Jake moans. "We needed the money! But Dianna... she found out about the books too. She was squeezing us for submission. She wanted us under her thumb. Both secrets. Both threats."
"And who was she talking to?"
"The Mayor." Caterina says it fast, like ripping off a bandage. "And the New Yorkers."
I sit back. The web just got bigger. A lot bigger. And I realize something: I'm not just investigating a murder. I'm mapping a war. The Guziks are selling secrets to the Black Hand. The politicians are informants. The New Yorkers are infiltrating. This isn't a murder investigation. This is a powder keg, and Dianna was the fuse.
"Keep your heads down," I tell them. "And pray Big Jim doesn't ask to see the receipts."
But I know it's too late. The information is out. The secrets are exposed. And in a locked room with a killer, secrets don't stay secret for long. Someone's going to talk. Someone's going to break. And when they do, this whole building is going to explode.
I'm about to leave when I see her. Bianca Cosmano. Moving through the crowd, heading toward the Guziks' table.
Jake sees her coming. His face goes gray. Pat, pat, pat. The vest pocket. Three times. Fast. Desperate.
Caterina stands. Blocks his view. Protective. But it's too late. Bianca's already here.
"Jake," Bianca says. Her voice is smooth. Dangerous. "A word?"
Bianca reaches into her clutch. Pulls out a folded envelope. Slides it across the table. Quick. Furtive.
I see it. The exchange. The network. The betrayal. Not through confession, but through action.
Bianca's eyes meet mine. She knows I've seen. She knows I know. But she doesn't care. In this room, everyone has secrets.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
I leave them there, sweating, and make my way to the VIP corner. But before I reach the politicians, I hear the argument. Voices raised, sharp and cutting. The sound of people who've been fighting for a while. The pressure of this lockdown is making it boil over.
I slow down, position myself where I can see without being seen. The politicians' table. Mayor Thompson, Congressman Cheatham, Mary Cheatham, Victoria Moresco. Four people. Four agendas. Four different versions of the same betrayal.
"This is where it all falls apart!" Mayor Thompson's voice rises, sharp and panicked. "This is where everything we've built..."
"Everything YOU'VE built?" Mary Cheatham stands, her handbag clutched tight. Her voice is cold. Controlled. But there's something underneath. Something that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "What about you, Bill? The Department of Justice. The informant deal. The evidence I've been gathering. For you. To save you. To trade for immunity when the Feds come knocking."
The Congressman's face goes gray. "Mary, please..."
"Don't 'Mary please' me, Will." Her voice rises, sharp and bitter. "I know. I've known. I've been gathering evidence. For you. To save you. To trade for immunity when the Feds come knocking. And you, you've been using me. Using my connections. Using my evidence. Using everything I've built to save yourself."
"Evidence?" Victoria Moresco steps forward, her voice cold. "What evidence?"
Mary turns on her. "Evidence against Big Jim. Evidence that could land him in prison. Evidence that could destroy everything. Evidence that I've been collecting, gathering, protecting, for him. For us. For our future."
"And you, Bill?" Victoria's eyes cut to the Mayor. "What about your deal? Your cooperation? Your informant status? The Department of Justice caught you. Missing funds. Bribes. They're using you to get Big Jim. Just like they're using Will. Both of you. Both informants. Both feeding information to the Feds while taking money from the Outfit."
The Mayor's face flushes. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" Victoria's voice drops. Lower. Dangerous. "The Department of Justice caught you. Missing funds. Bribes. They're using you to get Big Jim and the Outfit. Just like they're using Will. Both of you. Both informants. Both playing both sides. Both thinking you're clever. Both about to get caught."
I watch them. Four people. Four betrayals. I've seen marriages with less drama and more survivors. The Mayor and Congressman are informants. Mary has evidence against Big Jim. Victoria knows everything. And they're all turning on each other, in a locked room, with a killer, with secrets that could destroy them all.
This isn't just corruption. This is watching the system tear itself apart. The politicians who take money from criminals while feeding information to the Feds. The wives who gather evidence while their husbands betray everyone. The ex-wife who knows all the secrets and uses them as weapons.
I file it all away. But it doesn't feel like filing. It feels like watching a city destroy itself, one betrayal at a time.
I step away before they notice me. I've heard enough. More than enough.
Chapter 8: The Gangster's Paradise
I turn from the politicians to the predators. The real players. The ones who don't wear suits to hide what they are, they wear suits because it's expected, but everyone knows what's underneath.
The New Yorkers. Luciano and Costello. Outsiders. Infiltrators. What do they know?
I find them at their table, sitting like statues. Watching. Calculating. The kind of men who see empires rise and fall and don't blink.
I position myself near their table, close enough to hear, far enough to not be obvious. I light a cigarette, lean against a pillar, look like a man with nothing better to do. It's a look I've perfected. Comes in handy when you're eavesdropping on men who'd kill you for listening. But my ears are tuned to their conversation.
"...evaluation complete," Luciano is saying, his voice low. "The operation is vulnerable. Big Jim is distracted. Retirement-minded. This is the time."
Costello nods. "I've made inroads. Connections. But there's a problem."
"What problem?"
"Dianna. She discovered the infiltration. The plan. She was going to expose it. To Big Jim. To everyone."
Luciano's expression doesn't change, but I see the calculation. "And now?"
"She's dead. Problem solved."
"Or someone solved it for us." Luciano looks around, checking for listeners.
I'm already turning away, pretending to watch the band, when I feel it, a hand on my shoulder. Heavy. Firm.
"You lost, friend?"
I turn. One of the New York boys. Big. Quiet. The kind of muscle that doesn't ask twice.
My heart hammers, but I keep my voice easy. "Just enjoying the music. Hell of a band."
"Yeah?" He doesn't let go of my shoulder. His eyes are flat, measuring. "Funny. I didn't see you enjoying the music. I saw you enjoying our table."
Behind him, I catch Luciano watching. Calculating. Costello hasn't moved, but his hand has drifted toward his waistband, where a gun would be, if guns were allowed.
"Must be the acoustics." I shrug, casual, but I'm already mapping the exits. "Sound carries funny in a room this big."
The muscle studies me for a long moment. I can feel the decision happening behind his eyes. Is this worth the trouble? Is this the night to make a scene?
"Jack Dylan." Costello's voice cuts through the tension. Smooth. Controlled. "The detective."
The muscle looks back at his boss. Costello gives a slight shake of his head. The hand on my shoulder releases.
"Move along, detective." The muscle steps back. "The music's better by the stage."
I nod once and walk away. Slow. Steady. Not running. Never running. But my shirt is damp under my arms, and my pulse is racing.
That was close. Too close.
But I heard what I needed to hear. Luciano and Costello. Infiltration plan. Dianna discovered it. The New Yorkers are moving in, evaluating, planning. This isn't just a murder. This is watching an empire get picked apart by vultures.
And now they know I'm watching.
⚜️⚜️⚜️
I step back from the New York table, and the full weight of it hits me. Johnny was right. Everyone wanted her dead. Motive is useless here. It's like asking who wanted the sun to rise.
The list keeps growing. Every conversation adds another name, another secret, another reason someone might have wanted her dead.
The Guziks: selling secrets, being squeezed.
The politicians: turned informants, bleeding money.
The rivals: watching, waiting.
The New Yorkers: infiltrating, evaluating.
Johnny: affair, skimming.
Dale: affair with Capone.
Samantha and Mike: marriage, embezzlement.
Anna: managing it all.
But I keep asking anyway. Not because I'll find the killer this way, but because every secret I uncover is a thread in the web. And somewhere in this web, there's someone who saw something. Someone who watched while everyone else was too busy hiding their own sins.
Who could walk into the ladies' room without drawing attention?
Who had the access, the knowledge, the control to stage the scene?
Who was where when the lights went out?
I need the eye that sees all.
I see Johnny, still at his table, still calculating. Anna, still managing, still controlling. Capone, still watching, still waiting. The Guziks, still sweating. The politicians, still huddling. The New Yorkers, still evaluating.
I scan the room. People cluster in groups, whispering behind their hands, watching me as I pass. The politicians huddle near the bar, backs to the room. The mob guys stand near the exits, hands resting near waistbands where guns would be, if guns were allowed. The women sit in small groups, pretending everything is normal, but their eyes are moving, always moving.
Everyone's a suspect. Everyone's a victim. Everyone's a killer. In this room, the lines have blurred.
I look at the kitchen door. Anna moves through the chaos like she owns it, which she does. Cool. Controlled. Professional. The kind of woman who could walk into a ladies' room without drawing attention.
But wait.
There's one more person. One person who sees everything because nobody looks at her. One person who has been sitting in the corner, watching, while the world burns down around her. The one person everyone forgets is there.
Mamma Colosimo.
Mamma Colosimo sits alone at a small table near the stage. She's wearing simple pearl earrings and a single-strand necklace, traditional, understated. Old-world Italian elegance. But she looks small, almost forgotten. People walk past her without noticing, without seeing. She's just the old woman in the corner. The mother. The one who doesn't matter.
She's knitting.
A substantial bundle of yarn in her lap, needles clicking softly, rhythmically. A blanket. Large, complex, the kind of project that takes months. Something substantial, something that keeps her hands busy while her eyes do the real work.
But I know better. In this business, the ones who don't matter are usually the ones who matter most. The ones everyone forgets to lie to.
She's been there all night. Watching. Always watching. The eye that sees all.
I head toward the matriarch. It's time to ask the one question nobody else dared to ask. The one person who sees what everyone else misses.
But I'm not certain I want the answer. Because I know, deep down, that the answer is going to change everything. And I'm not sure I'm ready for that.
Chapter 9: The Eye That Sees All
I make my way across the floor. The room watches me. I can feel eyes on my back, the weight of their attention. Jack Dylan, the detective. The one asking questions. The one who might know too much.
I pull up a chair across from Mamma Colosimo. The wood scrapes against the floor. She doesn't look up. Her hands don't stop. The needles keep moving, click-click-click, a steady rhythm. Yarn wrapping around, looping through, creating patterns while she watches the room.
She's watching the room, but her eyes are sharp. Old, but not weak. The eyes of someone who's seen everything and survived. The eyes of someone who knows how to wait. And while she waits, her hands stay busy. Making something. Observing everything.
"Mamma," I say gently.
She looks at me. Eyes the color of faded violets. Old but sharp. A woman who's watched this city burn longer than I've been breathing. "Mr. Dylan," she says. Quiet. Steady. Measured. Old-world. "You have been busy."
"I have. I need your help."
She smiles. Not warm. The smile of someone who knows things. Dangerous things. "Everyone needs my help. But they forget I am here. They think I am just an old woman. The mother. The one who does not matter."
"You matter, Mamma. You see things."
"I see everything, Mr. Dylan." Her eyes hold mine. Old. Wise. "That is my curse. And my gift."
I lean forward, close enough to smell her perfume, old and floral. "I need to know what you saw tonight. Before the lights went out. And after they came back on. During the blackout, what did you hear? What did you feel?"
She studies me for a long moment. Her eyes move over my face, reading me like a book. Then she nods, slow and deliberate. "You're looking for the killer."
"I am."
"And you think I can help you find them."
"I know you can. You're the one person in this room who sees everything but says nothing. People forget you're here. They talk. They move. They think you don't notice."
She smiles again. It's a wise smile, a sad smile. The smile of someone who's learned that knowledge is both power and burden. "They're fools. I notice everything."
"Tell me what you noticed tonight."
She takes a breath. The knitting pauses for just a moment, her fingers tightening on the needles, knuckles going white. She counts stitches silently, one, two, three, then the rhythm resumes. Click-click-click. Her hands move automatically, muscle memory, while her mind works. The pattern is complex, cables, maybe, or lacework. Something that requires attention. But her attention is split. The knitting is automatic. The watching is deliberate.
"Before the lights went out, I saw Dianna Valentine. Working the room. Talking to everyone. Smiling. But her eyes were sharp. Gathering information. I have seen it before. She is good at it."
"Who was she talking to?"
"Everyone. The politicians. The gangsters. The women. She moved like a spider, spinning a web." Mamma's voice softens, but the needles never stop. Click-click-click. Creating something while she watches everything. "But I saw something else. I saw her watching Johnny Torrio. And I saw him watching her back. They thought no one noticed. But I noticed."
"What did you notice?"
"The way they looked at each other. The way they avoided each other in public, but their eyes kept finding each other. It is not the first time I have seen it." She pauses. Measured. "I have known for weeks. Maybe months. But I kept quiet. Family business. Until tonight."
"What happened tonight?"
"Tonight, I saw Madame Anna watching them." Mamma's voice drops. Lower. Careful. "She is always watching. She is smart, that one. Smarter than people think. She does not miss much." Pause. "But I do not think she knows. Not yet. I was planning to tell her. I was going to tell her tonight, after the announcement. A woman should know when her husband is being unfaithful. Especially a woman like Anna. She deserves to know."
Her voice is measured, thoughtful. The voice of a matriarch who's seen it all, who's learned that sometimes a lie hurts more than the truth.
I feel a chill, cold and sharp. "You were going to tell Anna about the affair?"
"Yes. I discovered it recently. I have been watching. I have seen the signs. The way they look at each other. The way they find excuses to be near each other. I was going to tell Anna. She needs to know." Pause. "But now... now Dianna is dead. And I never got the chance to tell Anna."
The knitting stops. Her hands go still. The needles rest in her lap, the yarn hanging limp. For the first time since I sat down, she's not moving. I see something else in her eyes. Not just sadness. Fear. Old fear. Deep fear. The kind that does not go away.
"But that is not all, Mr. Dylan." Her voice drops. Lower. Almost a whisper. "Dianna found out. She discovered that I knew about the affair, that I was planning to tell Anna. And she... she did not take it well."
"What do you mean?"
"She learned of my intentions. I don't know how, maybe she overheard something, maybe someone told her. But she found out. And then I discovered something myself. Dianna was making plans. Plans for me to have a fatal 'accident.'" Mamma's voice trembles slightly. "She was going to kill me, Mr. Dylan. Before I could tell Anna. Before I could expose her. She was going to silence me permanently."
I stare at her. The old woman in the corner, the one everyone forgets is there. The one who sees everything. Including her own death warrant.
"So you had a motive too," I say quietly.
Mamma looks at me, her old eyes sharp and clear. "I'm an old woman, Mr. Dylan. I couldn't have strangled her. I wasn't near the restroom. I don't have the strength. But yes. I had a motive. A very strong one."
Mamma's right, she's an old woman. She couldn't have done it. She wasn't there. She doesn't have the strength. Just the motive.
But this motive is different. Not blackmail. Not greed. Not revenge. Protection. Self-defense. The oldest motive of all. She was marked for death, and she fought back the only way she could.
Dianna Valentine wasn't just dangerous. She was lethal. To everyone. And everyone responded differently. Fear. Greed. Revenge. Protection. Each person in this room had their own reason, their own breaking point.
I look at her, and something in her eyes makes me pause. There's more. There's always more with Mamma. "You said you had a motive. A strong one. But you couldn't have done it yourself. So what did you do about it?"
Her hands are still. The knitting abandoned in her lap. Her knuckles go white where they grip the needles. She looks at me, and for a moment, I see the steel underneath the old woman's facade. The steel of someone who's survived in this city for decades, who's watched her son build an empire, who knows how things work in this world.
"I'm an old woman, Mr. Dylan. But I'm not a fool." Her voice drops lower, so low I have to lean in to hear. "I couldn't kill her myself. But I know people. I know who can be trusted. I know who has the skills."
"What did you do, Mamma?"
"I approached Frank Costello." Her eyes hold mine, steady, unflinching. "I know what he is. I've been watching. I know he's not just a gambler. I know he works for the Genovese Family. I know he's a... professional. So I made him an offer."
"How did you contact him?" I ask because I need to understand. I need to know how an old woman in a corner with knitting needles arranges a murder.
"One does not need to leave a chair to make arrangements, Mr. Dylan. One needs only to know who to ask. And I have been watching this room for a very long time." Her hands resume their movement. Click-click-click. Creating something while she explains how she commissioned a death.
"How did you pay him?"
"Cash. From the safe in my son's office. He never counts it. He trusts me." She pauses. "Everyone trusts the old woman. That is their mistake."
I stare at her. The grandmother. The knitter. The matriarch. The woman who just told me she hired a professional killer with the same calm she'd use to order groceries. I've met a lot of killers in this city. None of them made blankets.
"How do you square it with your conscience?"
She looks at me with those faded violet eyes. "She was going to kill me first, Mr. Dylan. I am old, but I am not ready to die. Not for a girl who forgot her place."
"Frank agreed?"
"He did. For a price. He said he would take care of it. But it doesn't matter now. The storm disrupted everything. And someone else killed Dianna first."
Mamma hired Frank. Frank was supposed to kill Dianna. But the storm disrupted it all. And someone else killed Dianna first.
"What else did you see?"
"Before the lights went out, I saw Dianna break away from a conversation with the Mayor. She walked toward the southwest corridor, the one that leads to the ladies' room. She moved with purpose. Determined, not casual."
"Did you see anyone else go that way?"
"Yes. Frank Costello. He went toward the corridor too, but later. He moved quickly, purposefully. Like a man on a mission."
"Did you see anyone come out of the corridor after the lights came back on?"
She thinks for a moment, methodical, careful. "Yes. Madame Anna. She came out maybe a minute after the lights came back. She looked... composed. Too composed. Her hair was perfect. Her dress was perfect. But there was something. A slight flush to her cheeks. Like she'd been... active. And her hands. She was holding them together, like she was trying to keep them still."
Her observations are precise, detailed. The eye that sees all. The witness no one notices.
I lean back in my chair, letting Mamma's words settle. My mind works through it methodically.
Who could kill quietly in a ladies' room? A ligature strangulation, no gun, no noise, no mess. Requires someone who belongs there, who wouldn't draw attention. A woman. A woman with access. Someone who can enter and exit without raising suspicion. Not a man, men don't enter ladies' rooms. Not staff, they'd be noticed. But a woman guest? A woman owner? That would be natural. Expected. Invisible.
Mamma saw Dianna head toward the corridor before the blackout. She saw someone else follow. Who could enter that space without turning heads? Who belonged there? Mamma saw Anna emerge from the corridor after lights returned. Anna was there. In the right place. At the right time.
The blackout hit at 7:26. Mamma saw Anna emerge from the corridor a minute after the lights returned, around 7:29. That's a three-minute window. Time to kill? Time to stage? Time to compose herself? The timing fits perfectly.
I tick through it in my head: Woman, access, ligature. Ladies' room, during blackout. The window matches Anna's movements exactly.
But why? What's the motive?
I think about what Mamma said. She believes Anna doesn't know about the affair.
"Mamma," I say, "you said you were going to tell Anna about the affair. But what if Anna already knew? What if she's been watching, tracking, just like you have?"
Mamma's eyes get sharp, observant. "You think she knew?"
"I think her behavior suggests it." I'm working through it out loud now, testing the logic. "The way she moved after. The way she was composed. If she'd just discovered the affair tonight, she would have been emotional. Distraught. But she wasn't. She was... controlled. Too controlled. Like she'd had time to process it. Like she'd already made her peace with it."
Mamma thinks for a moment, weighing it. Her hands have returned to the knitting, the rhythm starting again. Slow at first, then steady. Click-click-click. Processing while her hands work. "If Anna already knew about the affair... that could have been enough. A woman scorned. A wife betrayed. It's a powerful motive."
Her voice is measured, wise. The voice of someone who's seen how these things play out, who's watched marriages die and lives burn.
But I'm not buying it. Not completely. Anna's composure. Her control. The staging. This wasn't a crime of passion. This was calculated. Methodical. The work of someone who'd been thinking about it for a while.
Jealous wife murders husband's mistress. It's the story you'd expect. But Anna's not a jealous wife. She's a business partner. She's controlled. Methodical. The staging proves it, this wasn't panic. This was damage control.
I remember what I saw earlier tonight. Anna on the fourth floor, watching. Managing. Controlling. Always measuring, always calculating. She doesn't kill for emotion. She kills for business.
But then I think about the note. The blackout note. "Throw the main switch at 7:30." The storm beat it by four minutes. Blackout at 7:26 instead of 7:30. Did Anna plan the blackout? Or was she just... lucky?
No. Not lucky. Not opportunistic. She was already in the ladies' room when the blackout hit. The timing was perfect for her, but she didn't plan it. The storm did.
I work it through: Anna lures Dianna into the ladies' room. Murder happens. The scene is staged. The blackout provides perfect cover for Anna to exit and mix back into the crowd.
Woman, access, ligature. Ladies' room, during confrontation. Blackout covers the staging. It all fits.
I stand up. The room feels smaller now, tighter. The air feels heavier, like it's pressing down. I know who the killer is. I know how. I know why.
But I need to hear it from her. I need to see if my calculation is right.
But knowing and proving are two different things. And in this room, proof might not matter. What matters is the story. The narrative. The truth that keeps the peace, or the lie that prevents a war.
"Mamma," I say, "thank you. You've been very helpful."
She looks at me with those sharp, old eyes, knowing. "You know who did it, don't you?"
"I do."
"And you know what you have to do?"
"I think I do."
She reaches out, touches my hand. Her fingers are cold, but strong. Strong enough to hold on when everything else is falling apart. "Be careful, Mr. Dylan. The truth can be dangerous. Sometimes, the right answer is the wrong answer. Sometimes, justice costs more than it's worth."
Her voice is gentle but firm. The voice of a matriarch who's learned the hard way that in this city, sometimes survival is more important than truth.
"I know, Mamma. I know."
I walk away from her table. The room watches me. I can feel their eyes on my back, the weight of their attention. Jack Dylan, the detective. The one who's been asking questions. The one who might know too much.
I head toward the bar. The weight of Mamma's words presses down on me. The pieces fit. Anna is the killer. I know it. I feel it in my bones.
But knowing and proving are two different things. And in this room, proof might not matter. What matters is the story. The narrative. The truth that keeps the peace, or the lie that prevents a war.
I order a drink. The whiskey burns going down, but not enough. Nothing ever burns enough in this city. Not the whiskey. Not the truth. Not the lies.
I look around the room. Anna is somewhere here. Managing. Controlling. Always calculating. The woman who killed Dianna Valentine. The woman who staged the scene. The woman who used the blackout to cover her tracks.
But why? That's the question that keeps nagging at me. The affair? Maybe. But Anna's too controlled for a crime of passion. Too methodical. Too calculated. This is business. This is strategic. This was survival.
I finish my drink. Set the glass down. The moment of truth is coming. The confrontation. The confession. The choice.
I know what I have to do.
I have to find Anna.
And I have to hear her story.
Then I have to decide what the truth is worth. And what it costs.
And in this room, with these people, the cost might be more than I'm willing to pay.
Chapter 10: The House of Vice and Sin
I find them in Johnny's office on the fourth floor. Executive headquarters. Panoramic view of the Wabash corridor stretching out below, rain-slicked streets catching the streetlight glow. The room is cold, clinical, almost, the kind of cold that comes from expensive ventilation and expensive decisions. Strategic lookout. Professional. Private. Appropriate.
Anna is sitting in a chair near the window. Johnny is at his desk, watching, listening. Both of them have been expecting me.
The door creaks when I push it open. Anna doesn't look up, just continues whatever she's been doing, her movements precise, methodical. Johnny's eyes meet mine for a moment, then he looks away. Observing. Calculating. Not intervening yet.
But I see it. A slight tremor in Anna's hand as she sets something down. The way she's been waiting. Expecting me.
"Madame Anna. Johnny."
"Jack." Johnny's voice is smooth. Measured. "We've been waiting."
"Mr. Dylan." Anna's voice is even, controlled. Too controlled. The kind of control that comes from holding something back. "Have you found a solution?"
"I have." I step inside and close the door. The latch clicks. "But you're not going to like it."
"I am a pragmatist, Jack. I like what works." She looks at me now. Cool. Controlled. "Who is it? Capone? One of the politicians?"
She's testing me. Seeing how much I know. Johnny remains silent, watching. This is his office, his operation, his future. He's letting Anna handle this. For now.
But I know better. I know exactly who did it. And I'm going to lay it all out. Complete. Every piece. Let them see the full picture.
"It was you, Anna."
I lay it out. Complete. All the pieces. Let them see what I've figured out.
"Means: It was someone who could walk into the ladies' room without turning a head. Someone who belongs there. A woman."
Anna's expression doesn't change. Perfect control. Johnny watches, silent.
I decide to bluff. "Mamma Colosimo saw you. She saw Dianna go in first. She saw you follow. She saw you come out. Dianna never did."
Anna's fingers tighten slightly. Just a fraction. But I see it.
"Method: You staged the scene. 'Occupied.' Feet visible. Clever. Professional."
Anna's eyes meet mine. Still controlled. But there's something underneath.
"I know about the books, Anna. The skimming. Dianna knew too. She was going to Big Jim. She was your protégée. The girl you trained. She was trying to take your throne. That makes it personal."
I pause. Let the words hang. Then I expand. "But it's bigger than that. She wasn't just a hostess. She was an information broker. She built a network using the entertainment specialists, the girls at the Everleigh Club, the girls here. Pillow talk intelligence. She's been buying, selling, leveraging information. Blackmailing everyone in this room. Johnny. Capone. The politicians. The Guziks. Everyone. She had files on everyone. A ledger of secrets. She was going to use it to take everything from you."
"Premeditation: You planned the blackout. You set the whole thing up. Clean. Professional. You're not grieving. You're governing. You're managing this murder like a business problem. You planned it. You executed it. You staged it. Clean. Professional."
Anna's voice stays even. "Speculation."
She maintains her composure. "Mamma. I have always said Jim underestimates her." She pauses. "She was a foolish girl. You have theories. You don't have proof."
"Neither does murder. Unless it serves you."
I pull out the note, unfold it, lay it on Johnny's desk. "Your plan, Anna. The blackout note. 'Throw the main switch at 7:30. One thousand dollars.' You paid someone to cut the lights. You planned the murder. Premeditated. That's proof enough."
Anna looks at the note. Scans it. Looks up. Confusion. Real confusion. "I've never seen this note before, Jack."
"This isn't mine. I didn't write this. I didn't plan the blackout."
I observe her reaction. The confusion looks real. But I don't believe her. "You're lying."
"I'm telling you the truth. I've never seen this note. You have no proof."
I pick up the note, fold it, put it away. "I don't need proof, Anna. I just need a story. And this note is a good story."
I look at both of them. Johnny is watching me now. Really watching. Anna's composure is still there, but I see the calculation. The concern.
"I'll show it to Big Jim. I'll tell him Anna planned the murder. She paid someone a thousand dollars to cut the lights at 7:30. Premeditated. She lured Dianna into the ladies' room. She killed her. She staged it. She covered it up."
Anna's face changes. Not panic. Not fear. But something else. Realization. She sees what I'm doing.
"Jim will believe it. Because it makes sense. Because it fits. Because you're the only one who could have done it."
I move toward the door. "Premeditated murder. That's what I'll tell him. That's the story I'll sell."
"Wait."
Anna's voice stops me. Not pleading. Commanding. "You're wrong, Jack. You have it wrong."
I turn. "Prove it."
"I didn't plan the murder. I didn't plan the blackout. That note isn't mine. It wasn't premeditated. It was... a moment. Everything came together at once."
"Explain. Now. Or I walk out that door and tell Big Jim my version."
Anna looks at me. Then at Johnny. Johnny gives a slight nod. Barely perceptible. Permission. Or understanding.
"I didn't plan it. I didn't plan the blackout. That note isn't mine. I was already in the ladies' room. Fixing my hair. Composing myself. Then she walked in. Unexpected. Unplanned."
Anna stands. Moves to the window. Looks out at the Wabash corridor. The city stretched below. The empire she's built.
"It wasn't the affair. I have known about that for months. I tolerated it. Johnny is... Johnny. He requires his distractions. I understand that. I've always understood that."
She turns back. Her face is hard. Not angry. Not sad. Just hard. Like stone. But I see it now, the crack in the mask. The emotion she's been holding back.
"But this was different. This was... audacity."
She moves back to her chair. Sits. Her movements precise. Controlled. But the emotion is there, underneath.
Anna's voice tightens. Her hand clenches. "She stood there, in my mirror, a girl I trained, a girl I took off the street, a girl I gave everything to, and told me she was taking over."
"She built an information network. Started at the Everleigh Club. Used the entertainment specialists, the girls. Pillow talk intelligence. They gathered secrets from clients 'in the know.' She coordinated it. Bought information. Sold it. Leveraged it. Built a ledger of everyone's secrets. Johnny's skimming. Capone's affair with Dale. The politicians' deals. The Guziks' bookkeeping. Everyone. She's been blackmailing everyone in this room. That's why everyone wanted her dead. That's why she was dangerous."
"She said: 'I'm going to Big Jim tonight. I'm going to tell him everything. Unless you want to make a deal. Give me your share. Step aside, and I'll let you keep your life.'"
She pauses. Takes a breath. "Then she said: 'You're old news, Anna. Time for a new queen. It's my turn now.'"
I stare at her. The audacity. Dianna wasn't just blackmailing her. She was demanding Anna's entire empire.
"She didn't just want Johnny. She wanted my chair. She wanted to be the Queen of the South Side. She had the ledger. She would blackmail us for everything. My business. My respect. My life."
Anna touches her own neck, unconsciously mimicking the scarf. Her composure cracks, just a little. Not remorse. Not guilt. Just... certainty. And something else. Something that looks almost like regret.
"The conversation. The threats. Then... the moment. I saw my scarf. Silk. Strong. And I thought: I don't lose. Not to her. Not to anyone."
Anna's voice drops. Quiet. Steady. Business-like. "I silenced her. It wasn't planned. It was... a moment. Everything came together at once."
"The blackout happened while I was finishing. The lights went out. Perfect timing. It gave me a moment to think. To stage it. To make it look like she was resting. The 'Occupied' sign. The feet visible."
She looks at me. Really looks at me. "But that was only to buy time. I couldn't move her alone. It's a tricky job. Heavy. I needed Johnny. He's the only person I really trust. I was going to get him, have him help me discreetly dispose of the body. Quick. Clean. Professional."
"But the body was discovered too quickly. The attendant returned. The line formed. No time. Everything came together at once, and it worked against me."
The words hang there. Heavy. Cold. But honest. More honest than anything else she's said tonight.
"I didn't kill her for sleeping with my husband," she says. "I killed her because she broke the rules. Because she forgot who she was dealing with. Because she thought she could take what I built."
I process this. The truth. Not premeditated. Opportunistic. A moment of decision. The blackout was luck, not planning.
"You had no choice."
"I had every choice. I chose to survive. In this business, when someone tries to take everything you have, you either stop them or you lose. And I don't lose."
Anna touches her neck, unconsciously mimicking the scarf. "She suffered. For a moment. She knew she had lost." She looks at me. This isn't remorse, exactly. It's... acknowledgment. "I can live with it. I can live with anything but irrelevance."
I understand. In this city, in this business, sometimes the only choice is the wrong choice. Sometimes the only way to survive is to become the thing you're fighting against.
"But I have to tell Jim," I say.
"Do you?"
I move toward the door. "I'm going to Big Jim. Now."
"Sit down, Jack."
I stop. Turn back. Anna's voice is quiet. Dangerous. Calculating.
"Or what? You'll kill me too?"
"No. But you'll start a war. And you'll be the first casualty. Not because I'll kill you. Because Jim will. For bringing him bad news on his opening night. For forcing him to choose between his empire and his pride."
I stare at her. She's not wrong. But she hasn't told me the full cost yet. I need to hear it. All of it.
"Tell me."
Anna looks at Johnny. He gives another slight nod. She turns back to me.
"Jim finds out about the skimming. About the affair. About what I did. He'll see it as betrayal. Johnny's been stealing from him. Johnny's wife killed someone on his opening night. Johnny knew. Johnny let it happen. Jim won't just be angry, he'll be humiliated."
She stands. Moves to the window. Looks out at the city. "Johnny won't go quietly. He has his own network. His own loyalists. He'll fight back. It'll be Jim's Outfit versus Johnny's faction. Brother against brother. And blood will run in the streets."
She turns back. "Then there's Capone. Who knows where his loyalty really lies? He works for Johnny, but he has his own ambitions. He brought his boys from New York. They're loyal to him, not to Johnny, not to Jim. He could form a third faction. Or he could side with Johnny against Jim. Or he could see the chaos as his opportunity to take it all himself."
"Nobody knows. And that's the problem. That's what makes it dangerous."
Anna moves back to her chair. Sits. Her movements still precise. Controlled. But the weight of what she's saying presses down.
"The Genovese Family, Luciano and Costello. They're already here. Infiltrating. Waiting. If Jim and Johnny go to war, they'll exploit it. Move in. Take territory. This becomes their opening."
"The Black Hand, Vincenzo Cosmano. He's been waiting for an opportunity. The South Side Bridge Massacre was just the beginning. He'll see the Outfit tearing itself apart and he'll strike. Revenge. Territory. Power."
"This won't stay contained. It'll spread. Other families will take sides. It'll become a city-wide war."
Anna's voice tightens. "The politicians? They're caught in the middle. Mayor Thompson, Congressman Cheatham... They're taking money from everyone. When the war starts, they'll have to choose sides. Or they'll be targets. Either way, they're finished."
"The Feds? They're already watching. They'll see the chaos, they'll move in. Clean house. Everyone goes to prison. Or worse."
She looks at me. Really looks at me. "And you, Jack? You're the messenger. You're the one who brought the news that started the war. Jim will blame you. Johnny will blame you. Capone will see you as a threat. Everyone will want you dead."
"You'll catch a bullet. From Jim's men, from Johnny's men, from Capone's boys, doesn't matter. You'll be dead before the week is out. And it won't be quick. It won't be clean. They'll make an example of you."
She pauses. The silence hangs heavy in the room. "This won't be a few bodies. This will be dozens. Hundreds. Blood will run in the streets. Businesses will burn. The city will tear itself apart. All because you told the truth."
"You understand that sometimes the truth is the enemy. Sometimes justice is the problem. Sometimes the only way to keep the peace is to bury the dead and move on."
I process this. The full scope of what I'd unleash. She's not wrong. I'd be signing death warrants for dozens of people, including myself.
The room is quiet. The weight of her words hangs in the air.
Then Johnny moves. Stands. The attention shifts to him.
"Jack."
I turn. Acknowledge him. I've been aware he was there, watching, listening. Now he's stepping in.
"You understand now. The cost of the truth."
I nod. "I understand."
"Jim is tired. He wants to retire. Wants to marry Dale. Go to the opera. He does not want a war."
Johnny moves closer. Careful. Measured. Always calculating. "You give him a reason to start one, he will. But if you give him a way out..."
He trails off, letting it hang. Waiting for me to fill in the space.
"I'm giving him a way out. Anna the patriot. Protecting the house. Dianna the threat. The blackmailer."
Johnny nods. "A patriot." He repeats it, tasting the word. "Anna the patriot. I like that."
"Better than Anna the thief. And it keeps your skimming quiet. For now."
Johnny studies me. Then: "You do this, Jack, you give Jim the right story, the one that keeps the peace, you'll have earned something valuable. My favor. My debt. When I take over this operation, that debt will be worth more than money. You'll have a friend in high places. And I pay my debts. Always."
I consider this. Process it. "I don't work for favors, Johnny."
"You don't have to. But favors have a way of being useful when you least expect them. And in this town, having the next boss owe you a favor is... insurance."
I look at both of them. The truth. The full fallout. Johnny's offer. I process what I've heard.
I think about Dianna. The way she moved. The way she smiled. The way she collected secrets like other women collect jewelry. She wasn't innocent. But she didn't deserve to die in a bathroom stall, staged like a sleeping drunk.
Does the truth matter if no one's left alive to hear it?
Anna speaks. "You understand what needs to happen, Jack. The story you'll tell Jim."
"Anna the patriot. Protecting the family. Dianna the traitor. The blackmailer. You stopped her. That's the useful truth."
Anna nods. "The real truth stays hidden. The affair. The skimming. All of it."
"And if I ever find out you're lying to me about any of this, I'll come back. And I'll finish what I started."
"I haven't lied to you, Jack. I've told you the truth. The whole truth. It stays between us. Forever."
"Fine," I say. The word tastes like ash. "Anna the patriot."
Something dies in me when I say it. Something small. Something I'll miss later, when the whiskey runs out and the silence gets too loud.
Anna gestures to the office, the view, the operation spread below. "This is what we're protecting. This is what the truth would destroy."
I look at Johnny. "And you? You owe me. Don't forget that."
"I pay my debts, Jack. Always."
I look at both of them. "Deal."
The words hang there. Heavy. The deal is made. The truth is buried. The lie is sold.
I stand. Move to the door. My hand on the knob.
"Jack."
I look back. Anna is standing now. Her composure restored. But there's something in her eyes. Something that looks almost like acknowledgment.
"She suffered. For only a brief few moments. But in those brief few moments, Dianna knew she had lost."
The words hang there. Heavy. Cold.
"I'm certain she did, Madame Anna."
I open the door. Step out. Close it behind me.
The deal is made. The lie is sold. The truth is buried.
And I'm not the same person anymore.
Chapter 11: The Final Piece
The main room is waiting, full of people who don't know how close they came to war tonight.
I need to find Frank Costello. Mamma hired him. He wrote the note. The pieces fit, but I need to hear it from him.
I scan the room. Frank isn't at the New York table. That would be too obvious, too dangerous. A spy doesn't sit with his handler in plain sight. He's somewhere else, somewhere he can watch without being watched.
I find him at a small table near the bar, alone, still peeling his apple, still looking bored. Like nothing happened. Like the world didn't just shift on its axis. In this town, the professionals are always the calmest. It's the amateurs who sweat.
Outside, the storm is finally breaking. The thunder sounds more distant now, rolling away toward the lake. The rain has eased to a steady patter against the windows.
But I see it now. The way he's been watching. The way he's been calculating. The way he's been waiting. He's not just a gambler. He's not just Costello. He's something else. Something dangerous.
I make my way across the floor. The room watches me. I can feel eyes on my back. Jack Dylan, the detective. The one asking questions. The one who might know too much.
I pull up a chair. Frank looks up. His knife pauses, mid-slice.
"Jack." He doesn't look up. Still peeling. But I see it, the slight tension in his shoulders. The way he's been expecting me. "Back for more?"
"Mamma hired you. You wrote the note. I need the details."
Frank sets the knife down. Slow. Deliberate. He looks around the room, checking who's watching. A professional's habit. Always aware of the audience. Then he looks back at me.
"Fine," Frank says, his voice flat. Understated. But I hear it, the resignation. The acceptance. "Mamma Colosimo. She hired me. Wanted Dianna dead. Said Dianna was planning to kill her first. Self-defense, she called it. So I agreed. For a price."
I keep my voice even. I already know this part. Mamma told me. The old woman in the corner. The one everyone forgets. The one who sees everything. Including who to hire when you need someone dead.
"Yeah." Frank picks up the apple. Peels another strip. Methodical. Calm. Like we're discussing the weather. "I wrote the note. Needed somebody to throw the main switch at 7:30. Couldn't be in two places at once, couldn't be in the basement cutting the power and taking care of Dianna at the same time. Needed the blackout to cover the job, give me time to clean up. So I wrote the note, paid somebody a grand to throw that switch at 7:30, while I'd be ready to... handle things."
He looks at me. Really looks at me. For the first time, I see the professional underneath the gambler. The killer underneath the charmer. "It was a good plan. Clean. Simple. The blackout would cover everything. No witnesses. No evidence. Just a dead woman and a dark room."
"And the person you paid to throw the switch?"
"It doesn't matter now." Frank sets the apple down. "The storm caused the blackout before they could act. At 7:26, not 7:30. Four minutes early. My plan was disrupted. And somebody killed Dianna first, during the blackout. My plan became irrelevant."
"Wait. You were there? You saw it happen?"
Frank picks up the apple. Peels another strip. Methodical. Calm. "I followed her toward the ladies' room. I was positioning myself, waiting for the blackout. Then I saw Madame Anna go in first. A minute later, Dianna followed her. I waited. Watched. Then the lights went out, early, before my man could throw the switch. Storm beat us to it."
He pauses. Peels another strip. "When the lights came back on, Anna came out. Alone. Composed. Too composed. Then the attendant returned from her break. Went in. Found the body. My window closed. My plan became irrelevant."
"So you witnessed it."
"I witnessed the aftermath. Anna went in. Dianna followed. Anna came out. Dianna didn't. The math isn't complicated."
I process this. Frank was there. He saw it happen. But something doesn't add up. "Wait. How were you going to kill her? In the ladies' room? A man can't just walk in there."
Frank looks at me. Really looks at me. For the first time, I see the professional underneath the gambler. The killer underneath the charmer. "I wasn't going to kill her in the ladies' room, Jack. I was going to intercept her. Lure her somewhere else. Somewhere private. The blackout would give me cover to move her, to handle things properly."
I stare at him. He's being evasive. A professional protecting his methods. But I need to understand the full picture. "Where? How were you going to dispose of the body in the dark? The blackout wouldn't last long, maybe a few minutes before they restored power. But you must have had a plan. You paid someone a grand to throw that switch. You had it worked out. How were you going to get her out of there? How were you going to hide the body?"
Frank sets the apple down. Slow. Deliberate. He looks at me, and I see it, the professional's patience with an amateur's questions. "That's operational, Jack. I don't discuss operational details. Not with you, not with anyone. I had contingencies. Multiple options. The plan was solid. It would have worked. But it didn't happen. The storm disrupted everything. Anna killed Dianna first. The attendant returned too soon. My window closed before I could act. That's all that matters. That's all you need to know."
I nod. He's right. The plan is irrelevant. What matters is what actually happened.
He looks at me, and I see it, the frustration. The calculation. The acceptance of failure. "Multiple plots, Jack. All converging at the same moment. Mamma's plot. My plot. Anna's plot. The storm. All of them colliding. None of them working as planned."
I nod. The pieces were already in place. Mamma hired Frank. Frank composed the note. Frank witnessed Anna kill Dianna. The storm disrupted Frank's plan. Anna killed Dianna first. The attendant returned too soon. Multiple plots converging. None of them working as planned.
The truth is complicated. Layered. Dangerous. Frank's evasive about his methods, but I have enough. I know what happened. That's what matters.
"Thank you, Frank. That helps fill in the gaps."
"Does it, Jack?" Frank picks up his knife. Starts peeling again. "Or does it just make everything more complicated?"
"Both," I say. "But at least now I have the truth."
"Truth, Dylan?" Frank laughs. Short. Sharp. "This town is built on lies. The truth would burn the entire place to the ground."
He's not wrong. It usually does.
I stand up. The main room is waiting. Big Jim is waiting.
And I have a story to sell. A lie wrapped in truth, truth wrapped in lies. The only currency that matters in this town. The only thing that keeps the peace, keeps the lights on, keeps the blood off the streets.
For now.
I make my way across the floor. The room watches me. I can feel eyes on my back. Jack Dylan, the detective. The one who solved it. The one who knows the truth. The one who's about to sell a lie.
The weight of it presses down on me. The knowledge. The truth. The lie I'm about to tell. The price I'm about to pay.
I've spent the whole night asking questions, chasing leads, building a case. And now I have the answer. The truth. The whole, ugly, complicated truth.
Multiple plots. Multiple killers. Multiple reasons why Dianna Valentine ended up dead in a bathroom stall. Mamma's plot. Frank's plot. Anna's plot. The storm. All of them colliding. None of them working as planned.
But I'm not going to tell Big Jim that. I'm going to tell him a story. A clean story. A simple story. A story that makes sense. A story that keeps the peace.
Anna the patriot. Protecting the house. Dianna the threat. The blackmailer. The traitor. The one who had to be stopped.
It's not the truth. But it's the truth that matters. The truth that keeps the lights on. The truth that keeps the blood off the streets.
The truth that keeps me alive.
I reach Big Jim's private booth. Capone is standing guard outside, a sentinel in a suit. He sees me coming. His eyes meet mine. He knows. He knows what I'm about to do. He knows the story I'm about to sell.
He doesn't stop me. Doesn't say anything. Just watches. Calculating. Assessing.
I pull back the curtain. Step inside. The air is thick, heavy, like breathing soup.
Big Jim is waiting. The moment of truth. The moment of the lie.
Time to sell the story. Time to bury the truth. Time to become the thing I've always fought against.
For peace. For stability. For survival.
For now.
Chapter 12: Smoke and Mirrors
Big Jim is in his private booth, the curtains drawn tight. Capone is standing guard outside, a sentinel in a suit. The air in here is thick, heavy, like breathing soup.
"Well?" Jim's voice booms, even in the quiet booth. Big. Loud. Commanding. But there's something underneath, tiredness. Maybe relief. "Spit it out, Jack. Who did it?"
"It was Anna," I say.
Jim stares at me. Hard. But not surprised. Not really. "Madame Anna?" He pauses, letting it hang. "Johnny's Anna? You sure about this?"
"She found out Dianna was betraying you, Jim."
"Betraying me how?" His voice lowers. Not booming now. More... careful. Like he's testing what I know.
I lean in, close enough to smell the scotch on his breath, the expensive cologne. "Dianna wasn't just a hostess. She was building a file. Names, dates, payoffs. She was squeezing everyone in this room. Building a case against the organization. Against you."
I pause, let that sink in. "Anna discovered it. She confronted Dianna in the ladies' room. Dianna wasn't just blackmailing Johnny about some affair, she was threatening to expose the whole operation. She had information on everyone. She was going to bring the whole house down. And Anna stopped her. She silenced a traitor. She protected the family. She protected you."
"Anna did this?" Jim's voice drops. Low. Dangerous. "To protect me? That what she told you?"
"She did it to protect the organization," I say, emphasizing the word. Making it sound noble. "Dianna was a rat, Jim. Selling secrets. Building files. Planning to expose everything. She was going to destroy what you've built. Anna caught her. Confronted her. When Dianna wouldn't back down, Anna made a choice. One life to save the organization. One death to preserve the family. She didn't do it for herself. She did it for you. For the Outfit."
Jim's eyes narrow. He's not buying it. Not completely. "And Johnny?" he asks. Testing me. "What does Johnny know about this?"
Jim looks at me. His eyes are shrewd, sharp. He's not buying it, not 100%. He knows there's more. He knows about the affair, surely. And as I look at him, I realize he knows about the skimming too. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he doesn't ask follow-up questions, in the way he's already calculating the cost of pulling this thread.
He looks at his hands, thinking. His hands are big, powerful, but they're shaking slightly. Tired. Old.
"Johnny," he says finally. "What does Johnny know?"
"Johnny knows nothing," I say, maybe too quickly. "He was loyal. Didn't know what Dianna was planning. Anna protected him too. Protected you both. Contained the threat. Handled it. The way she always does. Quietly. Efficiently."
Jim studies me. His eyes are calculating, weighing options. I can see the thoughts moving behind them like clouds: if he pulls this thread, if he digs deeper, if he asks the questions he knows he should ask, what happens? The affair comes out. The skimming comes out. Johnny dies. Anna dies. The organization fractures. Capone makes a move. Luciano moves in. A war starts.
Or... he accepts the story. The clean story. The story that makes Anna a protector instead of a killer. The story that preserves stability. The story that lets him walk away from this night and keep building toward his retirement with Dale.
"She was protecting the family?" Jim asks. Testing the story. Testing me. Seeing how far I'll go. "That the story you're selling?"
"That's the truth, Jim," I say, meeting his eyes. "She silenced a traitor. Contained the threat. Protected you. Protected the organization." I pause. "That's what loyal employees do. Make the hard choices so you don't have to."
Jim is silent for a long moment. The music from the main floor seeps through the curtains, muted and far away. I can see him working through it, the math of it all. His fingers tap the table. Once. Twice. Calculating. Weighing options.
Finally, he nods. Not happy. Not relieved. Just... pragmatic. A man who's made hard choices his whole life, and this is just one more. A man who knows when to ask questions and when to accept answers. A man who understands that in this business, sometimes the truth that matters is the truth that keeps things running.
"She contained it," he says. Pause. "Handled it. The way she always does." He's buying it. Or pretending to. Hard to tell with Jim.
"That's right," I say. "Anna did what needed to be done. Protected the family. Silenced a rat. That's the story."
Jim looks at me, and for a moment, I see something in his eyes. Recognition. Understanding. He knows there's more to it. He knows I'm selling him a cleaned-up version. But he's choosing to buy it anyway. That's the thing about lies in this city, people don't believe them because they're good. They believe them because they're convenient. His shoulders relax. Just slightly. The decision is made.
The silence stretches. I can feel it pressing down, heavy as lead. My stomach turns. The scotch I had earlier sits wrong, sour in my gut. But my hands stay steady. Too steady. They should shake. They don't.
"A rat," Jim repeats. Heavy. Final. "We don't mourn rats. And we don't punish the ones who kill them." He pauses, studying me. "That's the story you want me to believe, Jack?"
"It's the story that keeps the peace, Jim. I did what you asked."
He nods. Slow. Considering.
"Yes, you did good, Jack." He pauses, studies me. His eyes are shrewd, reading my face like a ledger. "You did what I asked. You solved it. You kept it clean."
"One thing," he says. His eyes hold mine. There's something in them, warnings, maybe. Or gratitude. Hard to tell with Big Jim.
"I came from nothing, Jack. Built this from scratch. You think I don't know what happens in my house? Under my roof?" He leans forward, and for the first time, I see the man who built an empire. Not tired. Not old. Sharp.
"I know about the skimming. Always have. Foxes don't ask permission. It's not in their nature. Foxes instinctively take whatever they desire.
So long as the foxes and other animals don't gut the henhouse, I let them eat. It's the tax of running an illicit empire or any business where nearly all transactions are conducted with cash only. The price of keeping talent hungry but loyal. I tolerate it because the alternative is worse. Some solutions cost more than the problem.
As for the animals' personal affairs, their mating preferences, that's not my concern. It's not a problem until it becomes one, when such activities negatively impact the bottom line."
He pulls a roll of bills from his pocket, thick and fat. Slides it across the table. Soft thud. "For your time."
I take it. The roll is thick, heavier than it should be. I can feel the texture of the bills, crisp and new. My hand doesn't shake. That's what bothers me. It should shake. I shove it into my pocket. It settles against my hip like a brand.
"Thanks, Jim."
I feel the roll in my pocket, heavy against my thigh. The weight of it. The wrongness of it. The knowledge that this money came from protecting a killer, from burying the truth, from choosing peace over justice.
I look at my hands. They're steady. Too steady. They should be shaking. A man who's just sold his integrity shouldn't have steady hands.
Jim nods slowly. A father's nod, maybe. Or a boss's. Or both. "Welcome to the real world, Jack. Where good guys and bad guys don't exist. Just people making choices. Some harder than others."
"Yeah," I say. "Some harder than others."
My hand finds the money in my pocket. I can feel it through the fabric, a constant reminder. A brand. The price I paid. The line I crossed.
I stand up. The chair scrapes. The sound is too loud in the quiet booth. "I should go."
Jim doesn't stop me. He just watches as I move to the curtain, pull it back. The main room is waiting. The lie is waiting. The rest of my life is waiting.
I pause at the curtain, taking one last look at the main room. Everyone is still maintaining the facade. Polite smiles. Accepting vague explanations. Playing along publicly while privately acknowledging the truth. The gap between what's said publicly and what's understood privately is vast, but the facade holds. They don't panic. They don't demand answers. They observe. They calculate. They understand the stakes. They know that demanding answers or causing scenes would be dangerous and socially unacceptable. So they play along. This is how it works in their world. The public behavior says "everything is fine." The private awareness says something else entirely. The hypocrisy of polite society on full display, right up until the end.
"What about the 'medical issue'?"
"Don't worry about it, Dylan. That's not your concern. There are systems in place. Experienced people to deal with such things."
Capone flashes me a look. Could be respect. Could be a warning. Probably both.
"Now leave me in peace, Jack. Enjoy what remains of the evening. There's a celebration going on.
This unfortunate and dreadful business has already taken too much of your time, prevented you from enjoying whatever exciting opportunities this night may offer a man such as yourself.
Grab a good meal. Have a stiff drink. Take advantage of those amenities available on the second and third floors. You've earned it."
⚜️⚜️⚜️
EPILOGUE: RAIN ON WABASH
I step out through the heavy oak doors and into the rain. The storm has broken, finally, settling into a steady, rhythmic downpour that washes the soot from the streets, cleans the blood from the gutters. Makes everything new again. At least on the surface.
I walk down Wabash, away from the Four Deuces, away from the lights, away from the music and the lies and the dead woman in the bathroom. Behind me, the music has started up again. Louder this time. Frantic. Desperate. Like they're trying to outrun what happened. Like they're trying to pretend it never did.
I reach into my pocket. Two things. The note. The money.
I pull out the note first. The one about the main switch. The one I never showed to Jim. The one that proves there were multiple plots, multiple killers, multiple reasons why Dianna Valentine ended up dead in a bathroom stall.
I could still show it. I could go back inside, hand it to him, let him draw his own conclusions. Let him see the full picture. The truth. The whole, ugly, complicated truth.
But I don't. I fold it, put it back in my pocket. The rain soaks through the paper, making the ink run. The words blur. THROW THE MAIN SWITCH becomes a smear of black on wet paper. Just like the truth. Just like everything else in this city.
I pull out the money. The roll of bills. Thick. Heavy. More than I've ever made on a case. More than I should have made. More than I deserved.
I count it. Not because I need to. Because I need to feel the weight of it. The wrongness of it. The price I paid.
Five thousand dollars. For a lie. For burying the truth. For choosing peace over justice. For becoming the thing I've always fought against.
I shove it back in my pocket. It settles against my hip like a brand. A constant reminder. A mark of what I've become.
I fumble for a cigarette, my hands steady. Too steady. My fingers aren't numb. They're precise. I light the match on the first try, shield the flame with my hand. The smoke tastes like smoke. Nothing special. Nothing wrong. That's what's wrong. It should taste like something. Like guilt. Like regret. Like the knowledge that I just sold my soul for five thousand dollars and the promise of peace.
But it just tastes like a cigarette.
I flick the match into the gutter and watch it hiss out, die in the rain. One small light, gone. Just like Dianna. Just like the truth. Just like whatever was left of the man I used to be.
And the city? The city didn't care. The city never cares. It just keeps on breathing, full of secrets and lies, waiting for the next storm.
I turn up my collar against the rain and walk into the dark. The city stretches ahead of me, endless and gray. A streetcar rattles past, its lights cutting through the rain like knives. Inside, I can see faces, ordinary people, heading home, living their lives. They don't know what happened tonight. They don't care. They don't need to.
I keep walking. The money in my pocket presses against my hip with every step. The truth I buried weighs heavier than the cash.
At the corner, I pause. Look back at the Four Deuces. The lights are still on. The music is still playing. Life goes on. The lie worked. The peace is kept. The war is avoided.
But at what cost?
I turn the corner and the club disappears from view. The rain falls harder now, washing the streets clean. Washing everything clean. Except the things that matter. Except the truth. Except the dead woman in the bathroom. Except the lie I sold to keep the peace.
I keep walking. The city doesn't care. The city never cares. And maybe that's the point. Maybe that's the lesson. Maybe in this city, in this business, in this life, the only way to survive is to become part of the machine. To sell the lies. To bury the truth. To choose peace over justice, stability over honesty, survival over integrity.
I keep walking. The rain falls. The city sleeps. The truth stays buried.
And I'm not the same person anymore.
I'll never be the same person again.
- TERMINUS LIBRE -
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