Page 1 of City of Wind and Lies

PROLOGUE

Twenty years ago, the Fracassi Family ran Chicago… that is, until multiple FBI raids put a stop to all mafia activity within the city. Frankie Fracassi was deemed a rat for cooperating in their investigation, and the entire Fracassi family was systematically eliminated by those they betrayed. The other families retreated to the shadows, laying low while trying to rebuild their empires. Now that the Feds have backed out of Chicago, two of the remaining mafia families, the Sorrentinos and the Bellucis, are fighting for control of the windy city.

1

"Trey? I'm home!" I shout, stepping into our apartment. "They let the interns go early, so I picked up dinner."

The evening news is blaring so loudly that I doubt he even hears me. I shift the bag of takeout in my hands as I lean back against the door to shut it, then turn to face the empty living area.

Cool, he's not even home.

I swear if he's out with his buddies drinking again, I'm not picking them up. Scrubbing vomit out of the cloth interior of my car is an activity I never want to engage in again.

Walking over to the kitchen, I set the bag down on the chipped Formica countertop and start unpacking the soups and subs from Ricobene’s. I heave a sigh as I take in the state of the apartment around me. It's fucking chaos. Trey bartends three nights a week and is home the rest of the time; the least the man could do is clean up after himself. It's not like he contributes to much else these days.

The news goes from the studio to the streets and the high-pitched voice of the on-the-scene reporter is like nails on a chalkboard to my already frayed nerves. I hurry over to the living room in search of the remote, lifting and straightening the couch pillows as I go. I start folding the throw blankets that are haphazardly strewn across the living room in an effort to start to put the place back together. When I snatch a hoodie off the coffee table, the remote clatters against the hardwood floor and bounces under the sectional.

Oh for fucks sake.

I swear the news reporter’s voice only grows louder as I crouch down and snake my hand underneath the couch, trying to grab the damn remote.

'Over two dozen new fentanyl overdoses have been reported from area hospitals in the last week. Police Superintendent Gary Douglas believes that a contaminated batch of cocaine is being distri-'

I mash the power button, quickly ending her segment. Without her shrill voice and the sounds of traffic, I can hear the faint sound of the shower running in our bathroom. Trey must be home after all.

Grabbing up more of his discarded clothing, I pad across the apartment and into our bedroom. Just as I drop them in the hamper and turn to leave, though, I hear a moan. And not just any moan- a woman's moan.

My feet carry me to the bathroom door, my hand twisting the knob and pushing it open before my brain can even try to come up with a logical excuse for what I just heard. I don't know what I expect to find, but seeing my boyfriend railing the redhead from 4B in our shower isn't it.

My heart seizes and my stomach drops as I yell, "What the actual fuck, Trey?!"

The redhead screams, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the shower wall. She knocks shampoos and body washes off the shelf as Trey drops her thighs and spins around to face me through the clear plastic curtain. "Shit! Wren, it isn't-"

"Isn't what? Isn't what it looks like?" I spit, turning on my heels and stomping back into the bedroom.

I hear the curtain tear open, the redhead mumbling something as Trey shushes her. His wet feet slap across the tile as I slip into the closet, grab the first tote bag I see, and start shoving clothes inside of it.

"Wren, baby, it was an accident-"

He's still naked and hard when I whip around to face him. "Oh, this is going to be good," I scoff bitterly, pushing past him to get to the dresser. "Go on, Trey, tell me how our neighbor accidentally impaled herself on your dick in our shower."

He scrubs a hand down his face, his cropped blonde locks plastered to his forehead. "Wren, just let me explain."

"For fucks sake, Trey!" I slam the dresser drawer shut. "Explain already, then." I twist around to face him, arms folded tightly across my chest as I gnash my molars together in an attempt to keep from crying. I refuse to let him see me cry.

"Baby," he coos, his fingers curling around my elbows as he tries to tug me closer. The heavy scent of his sandalwood body wash floods my senses as I stumble forward, but I don't let him hold me when he tries. Especially when he’s been touching her. I want so badly to be comforted right now, but I'm fucking pissed at the person who is supposed to be my safe space.

I step back, maintaining the distance between us. His brows furrow together at my retreat, like I'm the one who's hurt him. Red-hot tears prick at the backs of my eyes and a lump forms in my throat as I stare him down. Trey's tall and lean, with an easy grin and two perfectly placed dimples adorning his ivory skin on either side of his mouth. His eyes are the same shade of gray the sky gets when a storm rolls in over Navy Pier. I suppose that should have been a sign from the get-go; our relationship has seen more dark clouds than bright rays these days.

"You've been working so much lately, it's like I never see you. I was lonely, Wren. Stashia needed help moving in her new couch, and you were working late doing that audit and it just happened. I'm sorry, she doesn't mean-"

"Wait." I put my hand up to stop him, anger boiling in my belly. "The McAdams audit was three weeks ago Trey. You've been fucking the whore next door for THREE weeks?!"

Trey's jaw goes slack when he realizes he's just said too much. He makes another attempt to grab for me, but I slam my palm into the center of his chest, catching him off balance and sending him toppling backwards onto the bed. Then I march into the bathroom to grab my cosmetic bag, my eyes meeting Stashia's green ones in the mirror.

She's sitting on the lid of the toilet wearing nothing but my plush gray robe and a smug smile. Bitch. I’m so damn tempted to rip the robe right off her body and humiliate her just like she has me, but I push away that intrusive thought and snatch my toothbrush from the holder, eager to just get the hell out of this apartment. I shove it and my cosmetic bag into the overstuffed tote and head to the front door.

The first tears slip down my cheeks as I slam the door shut behind me, heading towards the elevators. By the time I slide into the drivers seat of my Honda Accord, I'm full-on bawling. I toss the tote down in the passenger seat and snap on my seat belt. And I can't help but roll my eyes at the irony when I see what tote I grabbed- it's the "Chicago is for lovers" one Trey bought me over spring break earlier this year when we went and played Tourists on the Riverwalk. My fingers tremble as I stab the key into the ignition and crank the engine to life.

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