My mind couldn't help but imagine the creative techniques Marco and his friends had in store during their session with the front desk doorman. The rusted garden shears were his go-to weapon of choice-but in this case, with this many people and his new boss-like reputation at stake, I'd figured Marco would bring out something much larger. Something that most likely involved using an electric generator. That was his father's go-to. Angelo spared no expense, especially when it came down to finding information or making a statement. Normally both were one of the same.

Robert would tell me stories of how the CPD would find disembodied heads, fingers, and, sometimes, a pair of scrotums hidden within storage lockers across the city. Of course, none of which were officially linked to Angelo—not until Marco personally told me about his father's gruesome acts.

I wondered...How far Marco was willing to go to be like his dad?

Camilla and I took one last look at the man standing near the front desk as we made our way out from the lobby onto the public street parking lot.

"Have a good day, ladies," he said with a bright smile and a finger-moving wave.

"Thank you, sir," Camilla replied without a glance.

He had no idea what was coming.

"Hope you have a great day," I added subsequently with a slight pause and a teeth-showing smile.

Part of me was glad this backstabbing son-of-a-bitch was going to go through hell, the other half, well, felt pity for him. Just like my past, my mind continued to battle a moral conflict. The system I once trusted, the one I vowed my duty to, was more corrupt than the criminals they locked up. And yet, the criminals, as barbaric they seemed, have more rationality and ethical reasoning behind their actions.

As soon as we walked through the revolving doors, Camilla whispered, "Hope you get what's coming, fucking asshole." It was quiet enough for my nearby ears and not too loud for the passing student-looking pedestrians.

I followed as she hopped into the driver's side of a seemingly familiar dark SUV parked right up front. "Are these Montanari-family issued?" I asked as I closed the passenger door behind me.

Camilla looked at me slightly confused before realizing what I was referring too. "Nah," she replied as she pressed the ignition button to start the car. "A dealership owner gave us two as a gift. Nothing fancy."

"Bulletproof?" I assumed.

"Ha," she playfully scoffed, "I wish we were that rich."

"You certainly had me fooled."

"Just playing the part" she noted while adjusting the dashboard vents to face her direction. "So, where to? We could stay North and visit Old Orchard, Northbrook, or Woodfield. Or" she continued as she now placed the air-conditioning on full blast, "we can head South and go straight for the Mag Mile."

I altered my vents downward, never liking cold air to hit me directly in the face. "I was thinking...southwest."

"Southwest?" She was a bit shocked by my answer. "The HIP Plaza, you sure you wanna go there? It's a shitty-ass second-hand mall."

"I'm not thinking about malls, Camilla." And besides, the mall that she suggested was more west than south. Dear Lord, thank you for the GPS dashboard. Awkward silence encircled the car as an unknown song by who I thought sounded like Twenty-One Pilots played with an ambient volume on the radio.

"You're not thinking about...," She hesitated to say the words, "going home?"

I gave her a responsive nod. Yes, that was exactly what I was thinking. Go home, make my presence known, say 'hi' to mom, and give my condolences for Rafie. And... maybe throw in a little questioning for dear dad. "Rafael was a fucking idiot, yes, but he was still my brother, Cam" I continued, "We didn't end things well, and I kinda—no, I want to say goodbye to him. It's the right thing."

"The right thing? C'mon hun, speaking from experience here, talking to a corpse ain't gonna fix shit." Camilla pulled the car out of the parking spot and began heading south, "...but I get it. You gotta learn to live, right?"

"I think you mean live to learn."

"I've heard it both ways," she shrugged off. "I'd probably do the same if it were Marco; besides how are you even gonna get in? That place is probably covered in blocks on end with piglets."

"Yeah, figured." It wasn't the first time our house was barricaded I knew how to escape it then, I'm sure I can easily get in, now. "There's a Starbucks four blocks away, you can park and wait there," I advised her while staring out through the slightly tinted car windows. "I'll sneak in through the back and quickly climb up the canopy. Shouldn't take no more than twenty minutes." I turned back to face her, "Just don't say anything to Marco when we get back."

She chuckled, "Girl, this is the most excitement I've had since selling those dildos to the Amish—I ain't gonna say shit."

"Wait—How?"

"Just keep that info between us gals, it's bad business if news gets out."

Camilla nodded to my apprehension as soon as we sped through a red light. " Marco said you decided to move back from Jersey, what happened?"

"Yeah, I flew in last night." She brushed off quickly with a stern tone, "A city's a city, ya know. Nothing new. I just kinda missed the fam."

"Oh," I knowingly responded, "I get it." It was a clear subject she didn't want to discuss, nor one I wanted to push.

"How about prison though?" She enthusiastically wondered, "I hear the femme-side sells panties for cigs and cash cards. That true?"

"Who in the hell fed you that shit-story?" I responded

Throughout the car ride, we both continued to gossip and discuss the prison dramatization of Orange Is the New Black, OZ, and The Night Of—I gave Camilla the actualization that nothing is how it seems on television. Prison was and continues to be, a place of nightmares for me. Solitary, especially.

"So," she insulated aloud, "you lost your marbles."

"I'm starting to think so, or at least a few of them," I surely admitted. "I mean how can someone overcount by an entire month? A day or two, I get. But an entire month, I just...I dunno?"

"I wouldn't even comprehend what it feels like to be in such isolation like that," she attempted to empathize with. "I mean, I've been stuck on an airplane for fourteen-hours and I nearly lost my shit. Let alone you. I say you got off decently, considering all the shit that happened."

Although Camilla was seemingly helpful, it wasn't quite the guidance and assurance I needed. "Yeah...so I've been told."

To ease up on the dreary note I unexpectedly created, she increased the volume on the radio and began singing and slamming her steering wheel along to 'It Wasn't Me' by Shaggy. As an alternative music fan, I didn't know much of the words; however, I jammed to the chorus whenever it came up.

"God, I love that song!" She yelled before turning the volume down as a different song played on the station. " I swear, millennials don't fucking make music like this anymore. They're all fucking moody pussies."

The familiarity of the area we were driving in became more relevant as Camilla spoke. We were officially in Caruso territory now, also known as Avondale. The residents of this little Chicago neighborhood were of either Polish or South American descent, with a vast majority of them working in some way, shape, or form, for the city. From cops, firemen, or notarizers to city clerks, alderman, and TIFF advisors—every house was a power-play filled with blue-collar respect.

"Hey, we're super close, turn here." I pointed toward the less-busy road on Camilla's left. "Starbucks is only a few moments away."

She followed through making the turn. Immediately, the contracting green and white mermaids' icon was within sight. "Should I go in the lot?" She asked.

"Yeah."

We both began scouring for a parking spot as we turned into the small strip mall lot. This was a low-key, not so popular Starbucks. Aligned next to a pet store, European waxing studio, flower shop, and an exotic shoe store. Neither of which has changed or moved location since I was eight years old. Both Rafie and I, as kids, had our theories about this strip—we called it the Cougar Triangle. A place where lonely housewives would come and indulge themselves. Our stepmother was one of them.

"There's seriously no damn parking." Camilla vented, "What the hell, don't people work?"

"Look," I interjected, "there's a private lot in the back alley. People park there all the time."

Camilla turned the car around and drove up, behind the strip complex. Luckily, there were three open parking spots left. Pulling right next to an all-electric, bright blue, four-door, Ford sedan; we both walked out as soon as the car powered down. The sticky, hot, humid air was one of the main drawbacks of a Midwest summer. No cool ocean breeze to bring down the heat. Yes, Chicago is along the lakefront—but any sort of lake effect wind wouldn't be felt this far inland. Especially here.

"Alright," I said as we both met up in the back of the vehicle. "I should be back in ten minutes." My anxiety had reached its peak, I was ready to get going. Turning around, I began walking away from Camilla.

"What if you're not?" Her voice echoed through the narrow, unpaved, alleyway.

To be honest, I haven't thought that far ahead. There was always that possibility of getting caught and arrested for trespassing—but... "I grew up here, remember?" I told her as I stopped. "I know every corner and creek. I'll be back." I lied.

"Twenty minutes," she claimed. "Then I'm calling it."

"What do you mean calling it?" Fuck, she had to play that card.

"I love you, Becca, but my ass will be gone. I already got five outstanding warrants in the south."

"Seriously?"

"What? You try selling dildos to religious folk, it ain't pretty."

"Fine but make it thirty. These clogs don't make it easy." I replied as I veered toward the main street, separating from Camilla, making my way back to an unwelcome home.

* * *

It must have been a slow news day for the greater Chicagoland area; media vans, large portable camera equipment, and a plethora of people carrying wired microphones and boom polls crowded the once quiet street of Kedvale Avenue.

Looking like an intricate Hollywood set, people of all sorts were trying to make their way around a police-made gated barrier. Surrounding at least a-quarter mile perimeter around my former home; with metal fences and men-in-uniform standing watch—I underestimated the status of the situation as I watched even the news anchors themselves hesitate to get a clear camera shot of possible activity going on inside the home. Pedestrians, camera crew, cops, and a barricade-this was a much more difficult task than I had initially imagined. I needed to find a way in without getting caught...or being recorded.

With all the attention geared toward the front of the home, I pivoted my body and took a quick peek at the adjacent neighborhood behind the commotion. Seemingly empty news vans and branded cars continued to overfill the street, but no one appeared to be in sight. I began casually walking down the significantly less populated road. Trying not to make myself stand out too much from the crowd.

The makeshift metal barricade ceased by the end of the block, with police presences minimized, my new plan involved sneaking in through a neighboring backyard and hopping over onto our garden-deck. I've done it twice before throughout my rebellious teen years, but during the dead of night—never in broad daylight, or let alone, in a maxi dress. I needed to be quick and nearly invisible.

I walked precisely three houses down. It was considered one of the smaller homes of the area, but the most unique looking of them all. With a pastel purple brick lining and white door, roof, and window trimmings, this home was, and still probably is, considered Avondale's hidden treasures. For me, it was considered a way into my former backyard.

I confidently walked up to the side of the home, acting like it was my own—in hopes of not drawing any suspicion from nosy neighbors. I made my way towards the wooden, white-painted, tall fence dividing the driveway from the backyard. I reached my right arm over, attempting to flick the metal clip-lock from the other side. After several failed attempts, my arm and pointer finger had the shortcomings of soreness. I regrouped my body and gave myself a few seconds before trying again with the other arm.

"You couldn't have gotten shorter?" I internally questioned myself as I reached over with my left arm, now practically standing on the tips of my toes. "C'mon, Becca. You have heels on, and you still can't do this?" I could feel the metal clip with my pointer but lifting it a few damn centimeters upward was a pain.

"Excuse me, miss?"

The startling voice threw my balance off as I got my clogs tangled within the bottom of the maxi dress—tripping downward and planting my ass onto the paved cement. I cursed at myself as I felt the stinging pain penetrate my bones.

"Are you okay?" The voice swiftly got closer as I looked up from the ground. Christopher fucking Chico. Out of all the godforsaken cops in the city, it had to be him.

"Beck?" He lent his arm out for assistance.

I reached out and pulled myself upward.

He immediately rotated my body around, grabbed my other arm, and pressed my front against the wooden fence. Placing more pressure against the back of my body, he leaned forward to speak. "What the fuck, Beck?"

"What the fuck, me?" I replied as I turned my head to face him. "What the fuck, you? I thought you were legit going to help me up, not arrest me."

"Give me one reason not to? You should be in prison."

"I got out this morning, okay. I came as soon as I heard about Rafie."

"Bullshit," he attested while leaning outward to pull out a pair of cuffs from his standard-issue utility belt.

"Don't be an ass, Chris" I figured he would be sour after I chose Marco over him, but this...this was just plain rancid. "You think I would risk a jailbreak?"

He hooked one cufflink onto my right wrist. "Fine, so were trespassing, Beck. What did you expect?" He hooked the other one on before turning me around. "I was gonna let you hop over the fence and waltz back into your old home? I gotta follow protocol."

"Oh," I observed as he, too, had stories to tell based on the overgrown blond hair on his head and face. "So, now we're following protocol when did that start?"

I took a few steps forward, smelling nothing but White Castle and Dunkin coffee coming from his uniform. "Was that before or after you testified against me?" I instigated.

He shoved my body aggressively against the fence. "Hey, don't start—."

"The fuck—" first day back and I'm already covered in blood and bruises. This was not a good day. Up, with my back against the wall, I slowly slid and squatted my way down to the ground, avoiding placing too much pressure on my already damaged behind.

"Shit." Chris must have seen me wincing in pain because his demeanor immediately changed. "Sorry, I didn't—You okay?" he squatted down to my level.

I brought my handcuffed arms quickly forward and over my squatted legs. "Jesus, this is why we never worked, Chris," With them now in front, I quickly stood up grabbing Chris by his now longer hair lifting him upward from the same position. "You got too much pent-up inside. Just listen to me for once, damn it."

He gave a verbal exhale.

My first thought was to knee him in the face and make a run for it. Although, I probably wouldn't get far, especially in these damn handcuffs. The second urge was to apologize, make him feel guilty enough to let me go. In all fairness, Chris didn't deserve to know about my relationship with Marco the way he did-no closure, no answers. Just an entire fucked up undercover sting gone haywire.

Bringing his face forward from the grasp I had on his hair, I leaned him closer. "I get why you testified—you were angry, probably still are too."

"Angry? It's not about..." He grabbed my wrists and pulled them down to my waist. "Look, we had a life together, you and I. Seven years, all waisted—and...and for what, a lustful relationship with Darth Sidious.

"I wouldn't necessarily call it—"

"Let me guess?" He sarcastically pondered aloud, "Marco reformed himself, he's a different man. He's gonna give back to Chi city..." My eyebrows rose to his nearly accurate accusations. "C'mon, Beck, you're smarter than this. Marco's no better than the rehab addicts we used to pick up on 95th."

"You don't know him as I do."

"You know him so well. How long did the feds have you under for, huh? Two, three months? That's not enough time to truly know someone." He placed his hand behind my head and pulled his forehead closer to mine, "you said yes, remember? Right before the whole Uptown ordeal, fuck, even probably before the feds allegedly recruited you, you said yes to me."

"That was a long time ago."

"It was Thanksgiving Day. "

"C'mon Chris, you said you'd listen," using his argument as fuel. "I'm trying to say sorry here."

Chris was looking for answers, scanning my face for a spark, a notion of our previous intimacy. Did I love him, yes? Do I still love him, no? There was nothing left, just the feeling of dreadful sorrow and pain on my half for crushing his heart with deception.

"For hurting you, I—I didn't mean to. It just..." Hopefully, a verbalized apology would suffice for my freedom. "I didn't want to leave you like that."

I looked at his eyes, the heartbroken blue eyes that just, quite possibly, relived the same aching moment. I should have stuck with my instinct and ran.

"They were supposed to go to jail, not you." Chris looked down and stopped, "I testified because I was told it would help your case, that it would free you."

"Who told you that?"

"The city attorneys," he hesitantly noted while pulling out a single silver key from his belt.

"Well, I'm out now, right?"

Without a word, Chris unlocked the handcuffs. I watched him as he squatted down and grabbed the metal cufflinks from the ground.

"I get it, you and I did have our differences," he said as while standing upright, "but that's why we worked so well—that whole yin and yang thing, you always knew how to bring me back to earth. You were my rock. You still are. I love you, Beck, I would gladly take a shot to the chest for you any day. And you damn well know it too."

"Geez, I just wanted to apologize to you and walk away—that's it," I unexpectedly blurted. "Right now, I only care about figuring out who killed Rafie. None of this high school love-triangle bullshit."

"I get it, family comes first. But don't forget, Rafael was my family too. I loved him like a brother." Chris continued as he wrapped up the cufflinks and placed them away into a pocket, "With that said, like always, I'm just watching out for you." He took off his CPD issued wind jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders, "Take this."

"Chris—"

"Shut up for a sec and let me talk now," he insisted. "If you really wanna go inside, this is the only way you're gonna do it."