Chapter 7 - THE RIDGEWAY SAFEHOUSE
Two shots shattered the quiet of the second-floor hallway.
Arthur fired first. The heavy bullet caught Jimmy in the chest, driving him back against the wallpapered wall. Jimmy’s submachine gun discharged wildly into the ceiling, plaster dust raining down like white snow before he fell heavily to his knees, dropping his weapon.
Arthur didn't wait to see if Jimmy was dead. He grabbed Norah by the arm, shoved open the heavy oak doors into the private garage, and slammed them shut, throwing the iron security bolt into place.
Inside the dark garage stood a dark green 1969 Alfa Romeo Giulia.
Arthur unlocked the passenger door, threw Norah inside, and scrambled into the driver's seat. He reached under the wooden dashboard, ripped open a wiring harness, and hot-wired the ignition with practiced, violent speed.
The engine roared to life with a deep, mechanical growl.
Arthur slammed the transmission into reverse, hit the gas pedal, and drove the heavy sports car straight through the wooden garage doors, shattering the cedar panels into flying splinters as they burst out into the freezing storm outside.
Tires spun wildly on the wet gravel driveway before gripping the pavement. Arthur shifted into second gear, the car launching forward through the estate's rear service gate, vanishing into the torrential rain and black darkness of the country roads.
For forty-five minutes, neither of them spoke.
The sound of the rain beating against the aluminum roof was deafening. Arthur drove with one hand on the wooden steering wheel, his left arm limp at his side, his face dangerously pale under the green glow of the dashboard lights.
“Where are we going?” Norah finally asked, her hands gripping the leather seat.
“Wisconsin,” Arthur rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. “A cabin near Ridgeway. My father bought it under a shell company in 1984. Nobody knows about it. Not Sal. Not Vitucci.”
He winced, his hand slipping slightly on the wheel as the car drifted across the yellow line.
“Arthur!” Norah reached over, grabbing the steering wheel to guide the car back into the lane. “You’re losing too much blood.”
“I’m fine,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.
“You’re not fine! Pull over!”
“If I pull over on the highway, a state trooper finds us,” Arthur snapped softly. “A mob boss with a gunshot wound and a maid in a sports car isn't a conversation I want to have with the law. We’re thirty minutes away. Keep me awake, Nora.”
“How?” she shouted over the roar of the engine.
“Talk to me,” he gasped, his eyes heavy, his head swaying slightly. “Tell me about your father. Tell me why you owe ninety thousand dollars.”
Norah stared at him, then looked out at the rain-swept highway.
“He was a machinist,” she began, her voice shaking. “Working at a pump factory in Cicero. When the factory closed, he lost his health insurance. Six months later, he got sick. Pancreatic cancer.”
She swallowed the dry lump in her throat.
“He spent three months in intensive care. The hospital didn't care that he was uninsured. They billed us for every machine, every needle, every drop of medicine. When he died, the debt came to me. I took the job at your estate because it paid enough to keep the collection agencies from taking his house.”
Arthur listened, his jaw tightening under the green dashboard light.
“You stayed in that basement... cleaning up after violent men... just to pay for your dead father's hospital bills?” Arthur asked quietly.
“He was a good man,” Norah said, looking at Arthur’s profile. “He never hurt anyone. He spent his whole life working with his hands, making things that lasted.”
Arthur was silent for a long moment.
“My father made things too,” Arthur said softly, his voice trailing off. “He made coffins. For anyone who stood in his way.”
His head dropped forward, his eyes closing completely as his body went limp.
The Alfa Romeo veered sharply toward the shoulder, tires roaring against the gravel rumble strip.
“Arthur!” Norah screamed.
May you like
She grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, lunged across the center console, and slammed her right foot down over his leather boot on the brake pedal.
The car fishtailed violently across the wet asphalt, spinning three hundred and sixty degrees before coming to a hard stop in a muddy ditch beside a wooden forest sign that read: WELCOME TO RIDGEWAY STATE PARK.
