Page 42 of Savage Lover

Well, that’s his problem. I’ve got my own issue to contend with. Namely, how I’m going to rustle up some capital for the Steel Works development.

I’m going to need a lot of money. Not a couple million—serious coin.

Which might just mean going back to my roots.

Dante and I used to pull jobs together when I was a teenager. This was back before he joined the military. He was fucking wild then. Absolutely fearless.

And I was in a state of pure mania. Our mother had died. Our father was a wreck. I needed something, anything to grab hold of.

When Dante started planning jobs, I begged him to let me come along. At first, I was just the lookout or the driver. That progressed as Dante saw I had a talent for the work.

We robbed almost a dozen armored trucks while I was in high school, taking anywhere from $80,000 to $650K per hit.

I always stole the getaway cars. I could slip into a parking garage and roll out in a nice, unobtrusive sedan in less than ten minutes. Stealing from the airport long-term parking was best—nobody would even notice the car was gone. So there was little chance of it being reported as stolen while we were in the middle of the job.

For a getaway car, you want something with guts and speed, but also a low profile and dull color. Something that blends right into the surroundings. Four doors for easy in and out, and a big trunk to store the loot.

A Mercedes E-Class was always a good bet, or an older BMW. Even a Camry worked well.

We looked for Brinks drivers who were old and fat. Close to retirement and too tired to keep a lookout. No itchy young cowboys wearing combat pants, with visions of glory in their heads.

We liked the Brinks trucks. Regular routes, consistent security routines. We attacked them early in the morning when they’d service the ATMs, before the banks were actually open.

We’d drop the money off at a safe house. Then drive the getaway car out to the boonies, douse the interior in bleach, and set the whole thing ablaze.

Now, that was all good fun and good practice. But I’m going to need a much bigger payout than an armored truck can provide.

I’ve got to go right to the source.

Right to one of the largest vaults in the whole of Chicago. One that stores gold, diamonds, and undeclared cash for the city’s wealthiest citizens.

The vault owned by Raymond Page.

It’s right in the heart of the financial district, at the end of what they call the “LaSalle Canyon”—the long tunnel of skyscrapers that include the Board of Trade and the Chicago Fed.

Bella’s father doesn’t own the biggest bank, but Alliance sure as shit is the dirtiest. It’s like our own little Deutsche Bank, laundering money for oligarchs and helping the wealthy skirt the pesky regulations of international finance.

From what I hear, his records are more convoluted than a Navajo code, and about as factual as The Lord of the Rings. Which is all to say, I think I could steal a whole lot of money that nobody could track.

Now, the tricky part is that while Raymond Page might be crooked, he isn’t stupid. In fact, nobody is as paranoid as a criminal. Alliance Bank probably has one of the tightest security systems in the city.

But no system is perfect. There’s always a crack.

And I already know how I’m going to find it. Through Raymond’s baby girl, of course.

11

CAMILLE

Imeet up with Schultz at Boardwalk Burgers, down by the pier. He’s already eating a double stack and fries at one of the outdoor tables.

“You want anything?” he asks me.

I shake my head.

“You sure? I can expense it.”

Everything he says has a teasing tone. It coats all his statements, making it hard to understand his real intent. Is he bragging because he can write off his meals? Is he joking about how silly it is to submit a form for a five-dollar burger? Is he reminding me that I’m an informant now, effectively on his payroll? Or is he trying to flirt with me?

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