Purgatory's Gate

Chapter 1: 20 years later...

It's the first day of my life. That's what I think when I open my eyes. A weird, steady sort of calm. The first day of my life. I roll over in the grey silk sheets, looking at my watch propped on the nightstand. Fifteen past seven. My alarm goes off in ten minutes.
I roll out of bed to my knees. A hundred push ups. Twenty sit ups, on the hardwood floor of the high rise. Looking out at the misty Chicago skyline.
I stand up and check my phone. I'm wearing my bamboo sweats from bed, no shirt. Several missed texts, nothing urgent. I can shower first. It needs to be a long one.
I shower, and shave. Everything as normal. It's not one of the mornings I usually run. So that's all fine. I put on my smart watch, and a wifebeater, followed by one of my white collared shirts. Then my second favorite suit. My hair is gelled back and still dripping. I put more gel through it. I select my faded green tie and loop that around my neck. I'm standing in the walk in closet, bothering to flick on the light to glance over the ties hanging on their nice racks before selecting this one.
Then I cross back into the bedroom. Bedside table. I open up my bible, inside is looped my mother's arrowhead. I pick it up, kissing it, then hang it around my neck, safely hidden beneath the collared shirt, and tie. Knife on my ankle, knife in my pocket. Gun holster on my chest with a .45, and a thirty eight in a holster on my back. Then I put on my jacket, which is fitted enough to hide the weapons even on my small frame. I shrug into it carefully, smoothing the rich fabric over the hidden weapons.
I take a deep breath. First day of my life.
Then I put in a blue tooth headphone, walking into the kitchen.
I set down my phone on the marble countertop, tapping it to call my father.
"I said call when you get a chance, not on your morning run," my father grunts. He's in New York so he'll already be up. It's not business, his wife is there. Messy divorce.
"You know I don't run on Thursdays," I say, well aware it was a test to see if I had anyone over. My personal life has been of some concern. Concerns about mixing business with pleasure. And pleasure being dangerous to the family name. "The money's been transferred. Did that late last night."
"We got the payment—?"
"All correct, and transferred to the separate accounts, I also payed Luca as requested, but we're still ten short I'll be dealing with him about that later today," I say, sorting in the fridge to find the makings for a smoothie. I have the prepared packets but I'm selecting the one I like best.
"Take Oscar with you."
"Oh Luca's afraid of me," I say.
"Since when?"
"Since Dante is missing his left ear," I say, kicking the fridge closed, "I may be a bastard, but I am your son, father, men do learn to fear me."
He laughs, "You are a bastard Ezio. Zita tried to call me last night."
"Yeah she's not going to give you anymore trouble," I say, "Anything else for me today? Your suit's coming at ten for Maria's wedding, and I've got three more transfers set up. I will be trading this afternoon but it's late I'll have the reports to you by ten that fit?"
"What are you doing this morning?"
"Amusements," I say, checking my Grindr notifications, as I lean against the marble counter. I tossed the smoothie mix onto it next to the blender.
"Don't make me have you followed again."
"Girl from the west side, you met her at that charity thing last month, as I said. Amusements," I say, coolly, checking the chat. Meeting at ten. With Chicago traffic it should be fine.
"You're not as careful as you think you are."
"Is this a conversation we're having or fatherly advice?" I ask, tapping mute so I can blend the smoothie.
"Next time you are caught with some fag I will not be the one getting you out, is that clear?"
"Crystal," I say, unmuting myself. "My phone will be on. Call me if you need me."
"Does she know?"
"She's an idiot if she doesn't."
"I thought you were attracted to idiots."
"So you have your answers, it's amusements unless she gets pregnant, I think that's a part of the family motto or something?" I ask, taking a sip of the smoothie directly from the blender cup. I wince, it doesn't even taste good.
"Stay away from your brother's wives."
"There are six, which is a lot of temptation, and they also each have a mistress at least which is twelve. See above about amusements unless someone winds up pregnant. They want the IRS off their asses they can learn to share, that's all I'm saying," I say.
He laughs on the other end, "You're a trip, Ezio. All right. Go have your fun."
"Oh I shall. In all seriousness, call if you need anything my phone will be on,  lord knows Uncle Walter does—oh speak of the devil," I laugh, glancing at my phone.
"I'll talk to you tonight," he says, hanging up. I switch the call.
"Morning, morning," I say.
"How did you collect on the Martci's?" Is how my esteemed uncle chooses to begin this conversation.
"Hmm, ah, by being me. You know, just being myself," I say, taking too large a sip of the smoothie as I go to make myself a cup of coffee. I nearly choke but hide it at least as I speak.
"Stop taking risks."
"Stop pissing off the Farcone's and I won't have to," I snarl.
"How many dead?"
"That's between me and the fucking lake."
"You're as impulsive as your father. When is the rest coming in?"
"Started the transfer last night, should hit when banks open, and we are clear—oh and while I've got you on the line you're not gonna be hearing from Carla anymore. I took her to the abortion on Friday," I say, putting a pod in the nespresso machine.
"I've spoken to Vince," he says. Vince is his son. Ergo, my cousin but of course he was born properly into the family, so he's more than a bit spoiled.
"Good then he'll not be surprised when I speak to him as well—and Don called you'll have your money by Friday he's not—whatever he's seen the light on that. My father's leaned on him appropriately," I say.
"If I don't I'm holding you accountable for it."
"Lovely," I say, picking up my espresso and blowing on it. I cradle the small white cup in my hand, "If you need me between ten and two you'd better have something more important than me burying myself in a nineteen year old waitress who smells like cheap perfume."
"Better than your brother's wives, you're growing up on us Ezio."
"Certainly not she's Gio's mistress he broke up with her three weeks ago when I told her he was married so now I'm consoling her thank you for interest in Ezio Recreational Programming," I say, sipping my coffee and looking out the floor to ceiling windows at the skyline. Such a normal morning. My mother's arrowhead heavy on my chest.
"And your father says you don't take after him," he laughs and he coughs, "I need Bernard paid by Monday, and you to arrange it."
"I'll do it right now if you like," I say, tapping my phone.
"Schedule it. For Friday, late. That way if he doesn't hold up his end we can cancel it."
"Yeah—done I'm logging into your accounts now, anything else while I'm here?" I ask looking down at my phone as I log in.
"Remind me to thank your father that he finally threw one of you bastards who has his gift for numbers," he coughs.
"Will do," I say, tapping to transfer the funds, "All right, as I've that waitress waiting for me? Was there anything pressing?"
"No. I'll call you if I think of something."
"Bye," I hang up, sighing. I set down the coffee. Then I go to kneel down by the all glass fireplace. A false panel reveals a neat safe. Too wary of any contractors in the city I installed it myself. It's not pretty inside but it's indiscernible outside. A couple of my grindr hook ups actually proved useful on that.
I take out the set of MacBooks, and tablet. For sake of time I power on the tablet, hooking up my phone to back up the phone and all the information from this morning alone onto the tablet. I power on one MacBook and send a quick email.
Then I withdraw a simple black briefcase from the bottom of the compartment. It's identical to the one I usually use. But I just slide the three laptops into it, each into their own sleeve. I check that the tablet is done backing up and slide it into it as well.
Wallet, keys. I'm not stopping for a cup of coffee so I do the rest of the espresso like a shot. I chew some gum and fiddle for a cigarette before walking out the door, locking it. I don't smoke regularly but I want to look calm this morning.
No cameras in the hall and I sweep my place daily. My father gets rumors of my homosexuality. He's less concerned about the hook ups and more about the idea that someone would touch any of my electronics. I suppose he's concerned about the homosexuality as well as he's healthily homophobic but thus far he's been placated with the idea that I simply have an overactive libido inherited incidentally from him. So he's not bugged me or had me followed in nearly six months, but today he does not need to start.
I walk down to the elevator. One of my neighbors is about to get in, with a little dog. One look at me and she stops. I smile but don't say anything, just tapping the button for the garage.
Down in the garage there are cameras. I know that. I don't look one way or the other. Calmly walking to my waiting mazarti. Sleek, black and stupidly expensive. My Cadillac sits next to it, in my second parking space. I'm not taking it today as I'm going for pleasure.
I set my briefcase in the seat and climb in to the driver's seat, tapping my phone to hook it up to blue tooth, then mapping to the address the Grindr guy provided. Simple. Not the first or fifteenth time I've done something like this. Just my usual briefcase has a gun, disassembled. That's sitting under my bed. This briefcase is strapped in to the seat next to me.
I turn up the music. Chicago traffic. The Windy City, got to love it at rush hour. I weave in and out of traffic, predictably, checking my notifications. The last thing I need is my date to back out at the last minute. But nothing. Good.
Traffic clears up. I keep playing jazz music. I thought I would be more upset today. And while I want it to be over there's a weird calm resting in my chest. Even when it shouldn't be there. As though my mother's arrowhead is calmly guiding me.
The apartment complex is on the south side. I told him I drove a Corolla. I said I'd be dressed up because I left work. That wasn't a lie. The part about being dressed up wasn't a lie. I park in visitor parking and then text him that I made it. I pocket the keys and pick up the brief case carefully. I saw no tail but that doesn't technically mean anything. Visitor parking a distressing two hundred feet from the main doors.
I walk up to the door and use the code for the gate. Third floor. The stairwells smell like trash and a couple of greasy children skitter past me, glancing nervously. I know how I look. I smile at them. Mafioso, one of them whispers. Yes, I could probably be less obvious.
I walk up to the correct door, knocking politely. Briefcase clutched in my hand.
The kid answers. Kid, he's probably my age. But he's wearing gym shorts, and a t-shirt. He's got light hair and big blue eyes, clean shaven and smells like cologne with a ship on the bottle.  He starts at seeing me. I jam my foot in the door, because of course he was automatically going to close it. You close doors on men like me.
"I'm coming inside," I say, calmly. I know fully well how I look. Long sleeves or no, custom Italian suit at this time of the morning? I look nothing like people should. There's a cross tattoo on my right index finger, and an ace of clubs on the back of my left hand.  It doesn't take a lot to add those two together and get mob. The ace of clubs means I'm a murderer, simply put, and the cross signifies my standing in my father's mob. The meaning is probably lost on a kid like this, but he lives in Chicago. He knows what a mobster looks like. We both know what I look like.
"Okay," he steps back, basically holding up his hands.
"Thank you," I say, stepping in and closing the door. It's just one deadbolt but I lock it anyway, swiftly scanning the room, "You said your name is Aiden?"
"Yeah—I—,"
"I used inaccurate photos, I apologize. Now we're seeking for nothing to happen to you, but if you don't cooperate a lot of people are going to die, do you understand me, Aiden?" I ask, nicely, taking off my watch and taking my phone from my pocket. I turn both off, setting them on his crowded counter. I take my AirPods and car keys and set those on the counter as well, among empty plastic water bottles and balled up receipts.
"Yes," he nods, he can see the bulge of a gun under my jacket. His eyes flick to it then back to my cruel face.
"Good. You're going to give me your phone. My phone, keys, watch, and headphones, are going to stay right there, for the next day. After a day you are going to throw those in a dumpster suitably far from your house. This is going to reimburse you for the trouble you're going through," I say, getting two grand out of the briefcase, it's in twenties. "The money is clean but I'd recommend not spending it in one place. The idea is nobody ever knows I was ever here, do you understand me, Aiden?"
"Yes, sir," he nods. Aw he had wine out that's cute I feel sort of bad. Wine and plastic cups on a folded card table. He was expecting to have a nice day.
"Let's shoot for this being your worse Grindr experience, but one that you can laugh about several years from now when I'm likely dead," I say, A smile twitching on my lips, "Now, give me your phone. Do you have an Uber, or a Lyft account?"
"Yes," he says, fumbling for his phone. He had it in his back pocket. It's a thick iPhone in a cheap plastic case.
"Very good, log into it then hand it to me," I say, "I'm not here to hurt you. And I really recommend you do not call the police that would greatly reduce your life expectancy."
He obeys, fiddling with the phone. Then he hands it to me.
I check the call history to make sure he didn't call 911. He didn't.
"You should have called 911," I say, calmly, scheduling my ride.
"You said not to!" Aiden says.
"Correct. I'm talking for future kidnapping experiences, which I hope you don't have but, for future reference use that opportunity to call 911, then delete call history. Don't trust people who look like me," I shrug a little, "Now while we wait for my ride you're going to show me where your clothes are. I'm going to change."
He nervously shows me into his bedroom. It's all neat, well neat for him I'm sure. He's got an X-box and TV set up. And an air mattress on the floor. But he vacuumed it looks like. And the clothes in piles are in piles neatly at least.
He opens the closet helpfully, sort of skittering away from me each time I move.
"Lovely, hand me a t-shirt, hoodie, and jeans, and those boots," I say, taking off my jacket, and pointing to the appropriate garments. Aiden obeys, finding me a t-shirt, black zip up hoodie, and a pair of faded jeans.
"Do you want the cowboy boots or the like, mud boots?" He asks, gesturing to a disorderly pile of shoes on the floor.
"Well which do you mind never seeing again possibly?" I ask, taking off my jacket. He yelps at the guns.
"Calm down," I say, drawing the blind.
"Sorry—sorry—um—can I know what's happening here?"
"No. It's safer for you that way. Someone will be along for the car in a couple of days. If you're ever asked about this I was never here your date never showed up," I say, putting on the t-shirt. Smells like Tide laundry detergent. I can see him staring at my arm, the tattoo of a gun, showing I'm a killer, and the usual eyes on my shoulders, because my bosses are always watching. Our own particular sign, my father's initials, are tattooed over my heart. I have a couple of scars from bullet wounds, and plenty of knife scars. But his eyes don't linger on those. He wouldn't know what a bullet wound looks like.
"You ever see any of these? Remove yourself from the situation," I say, gesturing to myself generally as I finish getting dressed. Tattoos covered. I don't look normal. But. "Don't suppose you have any hair dye?"
"Um—just silver spray from Halloween," he says.
"Lovely," I say, finishing putting on the boots, "Get me that."
He goes to the bathroom, I follow, to watch, but he just fetches the hair dye. It's temporary but it'll do.
"Dark glasses, and face mask please, then my ride is here," I check the Uber. It's almost here.
"Here," he finds cheap glasses, and a cotton face mask.
"Backpack," I say, "Messenger bag. Something you don't mind losing if we can manage that."
He produces an old zippered school bag, clearly well loved. It's black and one zipper is broken. He has a pin on it. I take the pin off and then fiddle with the broken zipper to get it open.  I empty the contents of my briefcase into it, carefully stacking my laptops in, and laying my wallet on top.
"How about a cast? Cane? Anything like that?" I ask.
"Ah—sure?" Aiden says, going to the closet. He has a cane, "I ah—use it for home defense."
"Then why the devil didn't you have it on you when you answered the door to a murderer?" I ask, annoyed now.
"Because I don't make good decisions okay? Would it have even worked?"
"No," I say, shaking my head and taking it from him, "Not with me. But in future get a bat or something? Christ."
"Okay," clearly very afraid of me.
"Yeah, okay," I say, checking his phone again. "That's my ride. Now that," I give him another grand, "Should buy you a new phone. I'd leave yours but, I can't have you calling the police right now that would not at all be good for you. Not if I've been followed. Just, you might want to move. I don't know how today is going to go for me. If it makes you feel better I probably won't remain alive."
"Fair," he nods, really quickly, "Yeah. Um—best of luck to you?"
"Thank you. I need it. Burn the clothes, or you know, trash them but I wouldn't be found with them if I were you," I say, "And I ah—enjoyed the photographs. Sorry about all this."
He blushes.
I leave, leaning on the cane heavily. Mask on, hoodie pulled up. But past the glasses I'm looking everywhere. Nothing. Of course nothing. Of course. The pack is heavy on my shoulders. There's a silver Hyundai waiting in the parking lot, as promised. The driver just checking his notifications.
I hobble to the Uber, sliding in the back.
The driver says hello and I say it back, not removing the mask or glasses. I just hug the backpack to my chest, and wait. The car smells like fast food, and the fabric seats have stains. The driver does not attempt conversation after a second look at me, which right now I appreciate.
Chicago traffic does not let me down. We're stuck for an age with me looking out the windows. Expecting to be gunned down any moment.   But nothing comes despite the pounding of my heart. We simply lurch through traffic with the rest of them. One car among hundreds. And while I feel like there's a target on back I know that I look like anyone else.
"Is this it?" The Uber driver asks, as he pulls us to a stop in a five minute unloading zone, "Just—Chicago PD?"
"Yes, that's it. Thank you," I say, sliding out.
Up the steps. Michigan Avenue is busy behind me. I have force myself to walk calmly. I step inside the glass double doors, feeling cold air rush into my lungs. I can't believe I made it. I made it. I want to fall to my knees.
I take a deep breathing, taking off the glasses and the mask, and stuffing them in the too loose jean's pocket.
"How can I help you?" The lady at the reception desk does not look like she's having a good Tuesday. It's about to get worse. She barely glances up at me.
"I need to speak with a detective, I have information regarding a crime. Several actually," I say, "Regarding the Bollai crime family."
"Name?" She asks.
"Ezio Bollai."