Page 202 of Bitter Poetry
DANTE
Warehouses are a dime a dozen in Chicago. Regeneration projects kick off every now and then and clean up a few. Meanwhile, a few more slip into disrepair. The cycle never ends.
“I have to hand it to the Russians,” Leon mutters from the back seat on the other side of Carmela. “They know how to set a scene.”
They really do.
A soldier steps forward to open the high, barbed wire topped mesh gate. Matteo swings the AMG E-Class into a weed-riddled yard. Ahead, a classic red brick former meat factory sits on the banks of the river.
Christian is here, I hope.
Still alive, I pray.
Carmela’s fingers tighten over mine.
“It’s going to be alright,” I say.
Her eyes say she’s terrified, but she nods.
There is no backing out.
CARMELA
My skin began crawling the moment we pulled off the main road. Abandoned warehouses, crumbling factories, overlapping graffiti on every wall and temporary fencing half torn down.
The sun dipped below the horizon a while ago. It's not fully dark yet and shadows are everywhere, unlike people who are notable in their absence.
The prickling sensation intensifies as our three vehicle convoy passes through the high rolling metal gates into an industrial lot. We drive straight through a gaping entrance, past soldiers with automatic weapons, into a brick warehouse.
Our lead car sweeps a wide circle before pulling into a stop. We follow, slotting in beside it. Our final vehicle pulls up to our right. Although we’re positioned between them, I have never felt more exposed.
Fluorescent lights hang from the high rafters overhead. Half are burned out or broken and the remainder cast long shadows over the gritty concrete floor where more vehicles are parked and soldiers are either gathered in clusters or patrolling.
The Cadillac Escalade parked directly opposite is familiar—Ettore’s SUV.
Our driver lifts his eyes to the rearview mirror. His name is Mateo, and Dante told me he’s the head of their security.
“We’re ready,” Leon says.
The two men in the front exit. On either side of us, our soldiers likewise unload.
Leon gives my hand a brief squeeze but doesn’t otherwise make eye contact before he gets out.
“Stay here,” Dante says. He likewise doesn’t look at me.
I understand. There are eyes here. But I still fight the urge to fling myself at him.
“Understood.”
He opens the door and steps out.
DANTE
We’re on Russian turf, supposedly neutral ground.
I guess we’ll find out soon enough if that’s true.
Three vehicles and ten soldiers are the agreed limit for Ettore and us. The remainder of the soldiers present should belong to Grigory Koslov, the Russian Pakhan and owner of this abandoned factory.
