Embers & Ash Read online

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “At a very dangerous act three,” I said. “Whatever ultimate power is, Elzy knows it exists. She also has to know that if I find it, I’ll use it against her. If possible, locating the Troika of Outfit Influence has just become even more urgent.”

  “Well then, get ready to hug a small Italian greyhound,” Doug said with a grin. “Because Harry found it.”

  4

  I COULD HEAR MY HEARTBEAT.

  Sitting rigidly, I clenched and unclenched my fists, trying to tamp down hope. “Are you sure, Doug?” I said. “The Troika of Outfit Influence? Please say yes.”

  “Maybe. Possibly,” he said, whistling once.

  Harry limped from my bedroom, clicking painfully across the room. He touched a nose to my bandaged fingers and whined as I rubbed his smooth head. Harry had once belonged to my brother. There was a time when the little greyhound and I had been enemies, jealous over Lou’s affection, but we called a truce after my family’s disappearance, bound by the common cause of saving them. He was as much a partner to me as Doug; Harry had proven to be smart and fearless—a four-legged hero, as Doug called him. He’d saved me from Poor Kevin and never left Doug’s side as he sweated through Sec-C withdrawal.

  “Why is he walking like that?” I said. “Is he hurt? What happened?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s minor, and he’s tough,” Doug said, petting Harry’s back. “Right, buddy?”

  “I don’t understand. You said he found it.”

  Doug walked behind the control center and stood before the enormous wall map of Chicago taken from Club Molasses, the old speakeasy hidden beneath my family’s bakery. “I think so. As long as ‘found’ means this giant thing hanging right in front of our dumb-ass faces.” I stared at the yellowed map with its city streets drafted in perfect lines. It showed hundreds of Chicago buildings in great detail, some now demolished, others still standing after more than a century.

  When I’d first discovered the map, it was pierced with dozens of colored, lettered stickpins. I moved it to the Bird Cage Club after diagramming how they were placed, and put them back exactly as they’d been. It wasn’t until I’d read and memorized the notebook, particularly chapter one—“Nostro—Us”—that I realized the pins represented the locations of significant Outfit front businesses. Some were long outdated, like the F representing the Fischetti Brothers Mortuary (extremely dead) and a K for Katzenbaum’s Deli (bomb makers; blown up). But others were of the moment—there was a pin for Knuckles Battuta, VP of Muscle, and his front business, BabyLand. And another for Tyler Strozzini, VP of Money, and his front business, the multinational junk-food producer StroBisCo. Of course, the pin where Rispoli & Sons Fancy Pastries stood, my family’s front business for three generations, was the simplest to identify.

  The map seemed unchanged. I looked back at Doug as he stubbed out the cigarette and lifted up The Weeping Mafioso, the screenplay written by Uncle Jack, Grandpa Enzo’s long-lost brother who’d appeared out of the blue a month earlier with his daughter, Annabelle, and his granddaughter, Heather. The old man, riddled with Alzheimer’s disease, came back to Chicago searching for my dead grandfather, hoping for a final reunion before dementia overtook him. Heather’s death accelerated the disease, leaving Uncle Jack drifting like a ship without an anchor, but before returning to L.A., he’d left the screenplay and urged me to read it.

  Doug flipped to the end. “If I’ve said it once . . . all of life’s answers can be found in the movies.” He pointed at three lines of dialogue spoken by the character Renzo, and read, “‘I know the secret to ultimate power . . . potenza ultima . . . and all I need to get my hands on it is one little brass key. It’s in a vault made of brick deep beneath the streets of Chicago. Right under what the old-timers used to call the Troika of Outfit Influence.’”

  “So it’s a place,” I said. “We’ve always known the vault is underground—”

  “Not just underground,” he said, “under the streets of Chicago.” He put aside the screenplay and lifted the notebook. “We’ve gone through it endlessly looking for the Troika. It’s mentioned in the screenplay but not here, not in any of the chapters. Okay, so I decided to concentrate on the other word, influence.”

  “Yeah . . . so?”

  “So,” he said, “your uncle Jack transcribed the passage in the notebook about ultimate power from your great-grandfather Nunzio, right?”

  “Right,” I answered.

  “And Jack later used that information in his screenplay, along with the term Troika of Outfit Influence, which must’ve come from Nunzio,” he said.

  “Had to. It’s so specific.”

  “Nunzio was the original counselor-at-large, a genuine old-timer. In his day, there was one guy who controlled not only the Outfit but also the entire city . . . the only person with real, lasting influence. It was so strong that his shadow still looms over Chicago. You’ve said it yourself—Outfit members consider him their personal god.”

  A dull shiver climbed my spine. “Al Capone.”

  “Scarface Al. No one was more influential, not then, not now.”

  “It’s true. I can’t make it through a sit-down without someone—an enforcer, a coke dealer—wondering WWAD? What would Al do?” I said.

  “Now listen to this, from chapter five, ‘Sfuggire—Escape,’” Doug said, flipping pages and reading: “‘Capone Doors were invented in 1921 by Giuseppe “Joe Little” Piccolino, the chief officer of weapons and devices, and were installed in and around Chicago between 1922 and 1950 . . . a boon to Capone Doors came in 1938, when the city began to dig subway tunnels in order to supplement El trains. A far-ranging and wide-reaching system of secret tunnels that already existed beneath the muddy surface of Chicago, to which Joe Little had long ago connected many Capone Doors, was engineered to access the subway system as well.’”

  “Joe Little was underneath the streets of Chicago, building stuff,” I said. “You think he built the vault?”

  “It had to have been him,” Doug said. “Constructing secrets for the Outfit was his job. Which made me think . . . I bet there’s a Capone Door leading to the vault.”

  “But . . . which one?”

  “No clue. Maybe they all do.”

  I thought about it, gnawing a thumb, saying, “We still don’t know how Nunzio found out about ultimate power. Or how he got the key.”

  Doug nodded. “But we know the key was taped to the inside back cover of the notebook for a long time. So I took a closer look,” he said, turning it toward me with a magnifying glass. I stared at the back cover, seeing a faint outline where the key had rested for decades, and inside it, letters in Great-Grandpa Nunzio’s handwriting, printed so lightly they were barely visible:

  B U R G L R.

  I said it phonetically. “Burglar?”

  “Confusing, since the notebook is a who’s who of thieves, pickpockets, and safecrackers. I wouldn’t have figured it out if it hadn’t been for Harry,” he said, rubbing the little dog’s ears. “A pin fell out of the map, the green G, and he stepped on it. You should’ve heard my poor baby howl. After making sure he was okay, I put it back where it belonged. That’s when I saw this.” I rose from the couch and went to the map, staring at the spot where Doug pointed. Two other pins stood close to the green G—another R, this one purple, and a white U—indicating businesses on different corners in a neighborhood called Uptown. “So many pins, clustered in so many shapes,” he said, “I never noticed how those three make a perfect little triangle.”

  “No . . . a troika,” I murmured, staring at the intersection of a trio of streets.

  “Broadway, Racine, and Lawrence Avenue, the heart of Uptown,” he said. “That accounts for the B, one of the Rs and the L. After that it was easy. The notebook is full of info about Uptown since it was the epicenter of Capone’s North Side operation. Chapter one, ‘Nostro—Us,�
�� lists every piece of real estate he owned as a front business. It includes the Green Mill Lounge on Broadway, which he used as headquarters, the Riviera Theatre on Racine, where he ran an after-hours casino, and the Bridgeview Bank, a perfect money laundry, on Lawrence Avenue.”

  “G is for Green Mill, R is for Riviera, but what about the bank? You said it’s called Bridgeview,” I said, “but its pin says U. It doesn’t fit.”

  A smile creased his face. “It used to, back in the day. When it was called the Uptown National Bank.”

  “Uptown National Bank,” I said, touching the key at my neck. “U.N.B. 001.”

  “The vault holding ultimate power is somewhere beneath those streets and buildings. The bank is the likely location but we won’t know until we look.”

  “So . . . let’s look,” I said with muffled excitement.

  “Subterranean stroll, first thing tomorrow,” he said. “We’re gonna need some stuff . . . boots, maybe helmets . . .”

  I lunged, pulling him into a hug. “You’re amazing, Doug!” I said. “You found it!”

  “We found it!” he said, standing back and smiling at Harry. “Actually, he did.”

  “All three of us. Our own little troika,” I said. “If I drank, this would definitely be a pop-the-champagne moment.”

  “I’ll settle for a celebratory cigarette,” he said, drawing one out and lighting it.

  “You like that thing, don’t you?”

  “The cigarette?”

  “The lighter. Shiny steel, the click it makes.”

  “I enjoy the whole experience, from click to puff,” he said. “You have to admit, it makes me look cool.”

  “You don’t need a cigarette to be cool. Doug Stuffins is awesome.”

  “I like where this is going,” he said, “tell me more.”

  “Seriously. You’re as smart as a little Einstein, resourceful as hell.” I was silent for a moment. “Confession. As much as I need you, and I do, Doug, like crazy, I feel guilty about having dragged you into this mess. You should be living your life—”

  “This is my life,” he said abruptly. “The search for your family began as a big adventure for me, like playing a sidekick in an action flick. But . . . confession of my own . . . the weirder it got, the more I thought about quitting.”

  “Really? I mean, I completely understand. I just didn’t know.”

  “I considered taking Harry with me and hiding behind a locked door with an endless supply of movies and Munchitos,” he said. “Couldn’t do it, though. I owed you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Yeah, I did. You came to rely on me, if I can be so bold . . .”

  “Couldn’t do it without you,” I said, nodding at the three pins stuck on the map.

  “Backing away would have left all you alone. You gave me your trust and confidence. I owed it to you to see this thing through,” he said. “But it’s different now.”

  He twisted out the cigarette in an ashtray, staring at it, and looking back at me.

  “Your family’s freedom means everything, Sara Jane, but it’s not the only thing. That goddamn Sec-C, this stupid syndrome . . . whatever . . . I need to prove to myself that I’m . . . worthy or capable, or something.” He sighed.

  “I think I understand,” I said quietly.

  “Sorry. I sound like the star of a twelve-step program for the clinically self-doubting. Hi, I’m Doug, and I have no idea who I am.”

  “You’re not a sidekick, I can tell you that much,” I said. “You’re my partner.”

  He nodded once, slowly. “From start to finish.”

  Wherever that was, the journey would continue tomorrow, deep underground. Something about the moment demanded a handshake, and as we did, a thunderclap rumbled through the Bird Cage Club, followed by a whiny growl from Harry. He was spooked by the noise, cautioning us that it might happen again.

  An electrical boom and a warning.

  It was the perfect way to end the day.

  5

  SLEEP. YEAH. RIGHT, I THOUGHT, STARING AT THE ceiling of my office-bedroom.

  The joy of discovery was hissing away like a slowly deflating balloon.

  Lying on my mattress, cracking my knuckles, I saw the Troika of Outfit Influence for what it really was—the beginning of the end—but what sort of end? What if the thing buried beneath the troika was neither ultimate nor powerful, or worse, didn’t even exist? The possibility had occurred to me before but I’d pushed it away, desperate to pin my hope on, well, something.

  Something could very well turn out to be a big pile of nothing.

  I rolled onto my side, willing myself to sleep, but it was no use.

  A pile of books sat next to the mattress and I reached for an Italian dictionary. What seemed like a lifetime ago, my parents had promised me a trip to Italy if I graduated Fep Prep with honors. But studying the language seemed like such a normal thing to do that it felt completely ridiculous, not connected to me at all. Instead, I picked up my journal, which I’m writing in now. As a condition of graduation, Fep Prep students have to record their high school career and then turn it in at the end of senior year. Of course, I had no intention of ever handing mine in; it was nearly as full of secrets as the notebook. I flipped to the entry I’d made months earlier and read:

  It hadn’t occurred to me until now that the key to ultimate power may actually be a key, and that it could open a vault. Now, all I have to do is find it.

  I stared at the words, trying to summon the hope I’d felt when I’d written them. They’d been penned by the Sara Jane who hadn’t yet endured the horror of Juan Kone, or taken a human life. Strength grows from confidence, and that’s how I wanted to begin the trek underground, but disappointment loomed like Poor Kevin or an ice cream creature. What I needed was assurance that stepping through a Capone Door into darkness would lead to the light of discovery—that ultimate power was real. I lifted my phone, stared at it, thinking of Max, and then, to my surprise, someone else came to mind.

  Tyler Strozzini.

  He’s a handsome and confident eighteen-year-old who inherited his dad’s role as Outfit VP of the important Money division. After working together for six months, a level of trust has grown between us—I settle Money disputes quickly and without remorse, which makes his division run more efficiently. In turn, he became, in Outfit parlance, my Whispering Smith. I don’t know where the term originated but it refers to a member who passes on vital information to another.

  Tyler whispers about who hates me, and why.

  When a thug loses a dispute, I use cold fury to impose a penalty—a hefty fine, physical punishment, or worse—and he complies. But that doesn’t mean he likes it, or me. No one has sought revenge, not even the families or friends of those I’ve ordered put to death. But, as Lucky once reminded me, cold fury or not, I was open to attack when my back was turned. Not long ago, when the room had cleared after a sit-down, except for Tyler and me, he said, “Hey . . . Eddie Hernandez, the car booster?”

  “Ready Eddie,” I said, remembering the ten-thousand-dollar fine I’d imposed on him a week earlier. “What about him?”

  “I heard he said he’d like to stick a knife in your neck,” Tyler said solemnly. He’s good-looking in a movie-star way—smooth, coppery skin, jet-black hair never out of place, and broad shoulders that seem padded, which they are, with muscle. His green eyes tempered even the most disturbing news, like the tidbit he’d just delivered.

  I shrugged, trying to seem cool. “You’ve seen me in action. Every order I hand down comes with a warning never to lay a hand on me.”

  “Still, you have to know who your enemies are. I just want you to be aware,” he said, shrug-smiling.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “How long does it last, by the way?” he asked. “Ghiaccio furioso.”

  �
��Forever,” I lied. The truth was that I was unsure how long the effects of cold fury endured, a gap in my knowledge that sometimes gave me worrisome pause—except, in my life, pausing to worry could get me killed. On the contrary, anything that helped keep me safer was a gift, and Tyler delivered, whispering a growing list of names and threats; he was right, it was better to know than not. Tyler never asked for anything in return, but when he mentioned that he was having trouble collecting operating tax from a low-level smash-and-grabber—a jewel thief who smashes a display case and grabs as much as he can—I helped him do it. It was a breach of protocol; like everything else, there were rules when it came to debt collection. It didn’t matter to me. I wanted to repay his ongoing favor because he was the only friend I had in the Outfit.

  Actually, he was a little closer than a friend.

  Only a month earlier, depressed and forlorn with Max gone and my family seemingly out of reach forever, I’d agreed to travel to Rome with him for a long weekend on his private jet. But as we flew toward Italy, I stumbled upon a clue to the Troika of Outfit Influence; it shook me free of self-pity and instilled new hope that I could save my family. In a burst of frustration, I used cold fury to make Tyler turn back to Chicago. But as soon as I saw his worst fear, I was sorry I’d done it. It was just for a moment and I couldn’t bear to witness the whole, awful scene—Tyler at age seventeen, watching from the ground as his parents’ private jet took off, faltered in the air, exploded in a fiery blaze, and crashed. Whatever followed—whatever deep terror burrowed into his heart following the accident—felt like something that was none of my business.

  He was shaken but, to my surprise, neither angry nor resentful.

  With a weak smile, he told me I didn’t have to use cold fury, that he would’ve turned the jet around for me. I apologized, explaining that I’d remembered some urgent, unfinished counselor-at-large business, but that I should’ve been more patient.

  He asked then, had I seen his worst fear?