The Mobster’s Forced Marriage by Isla Brooks
Chapter 1 - Louis
I lean out from behind the corner to get a better view of the men carrying boxes from our store, clench my jaw, and take the first shot. My bullet pierces the shoulder of the masked man closest to me, and he screams and latches onto the guy next to him. The other three immediately startle and yell at each other in Spanish, looking around and rushing in every direction like a swarm of ants.
“Get out of here!” I yell at them from behind the building and lean forward to aim again. No matter how much I despise the Mexicans, I know they have guns, and I don’t want to risk my life by walking out in the open.
I miss my second aim but, following my lead, Omero and Thomas open fire from their hideaway, and we wound another Mexican. They try to fire back, but it’s clear that they can't really aim at us—they don’t even know where we are. They just want to secure a cover while the rest of them grab what money they can and run to their cars.
Goddamn rats! Do you think you can get away so easily?
I tighten my grip on my gun and step out from behind the corner to better aim at them. My mind is focused, my heart is pounding with fury and adrenaline, and I shoot them without care. In less than a minute I kill one of them and wound at least two others, while Omero and Thomas take down another one.
The Mexicans hurry to drag their dead pawn into the car, but under our continuous fire they yell something in Spanish and drop the body, running to the car instead. So they're ready for a race, huh?
"Follow them!" I yell to Omero and Thomas, firing the last bullet at the Mexicans' rear windshield, and running to my own car parked on the curbside. Time to show these bastards who’s in charge here.
I jump into the car and take off, gripping the wheel tight. I'm not one to lose my patience easily, but the Mexicans have been too damn infuriating lately.
They think they're so clever, huh? When they raid our territories, they wear masks that hide their faces as if it'll stop us from recognizing those rats. Every last member of the Messina family—my family—knows who they are: pawns of the Escarra family who betrayed the truce between us. But stupidly enough, their coverage works. At least, Riccardo allows it to work.
Riccardo is the don of the Italian Mafia, the head of the Messina family, my cousin, and my best friend. I'm ready to obey him and trust him with my life, so when he tells us to keep the conflict with the Mexicans low, I can't go against him. All I can do is remind Riccardo time and time again that yielding to the Mexicans won’t do us any good.
The last time I confronted their boss, Gerardo Escarra, about his people raiding our storages, he only shrugged and said that I had to check my vision. His people? In our territories? Impossible! He signed the truce to keep his daughter safe, so I must be stupid for thinking that he'd risk Jacinta for a piece of our possessions.
God, what a moron.
As if he doesn’t know that Paolo, my cousin, would rather kill us than let anyone touch his princess. He may have kidnapped Jacinta against her will at the beginning of their relationship, but ever since they got married Paolo has been pretty much obsessed with Jacinta and their daughter Luna. Which doesn’t make it easier for any of us to get along with his goddamn father-in-law.
Even thinking about Gerardo makes my blood boil, and I pick up the speed, keeping my glare on the Mexican car. They're playing it smart, escaping in the direction of Bridgeview—the closest neutral territory—instead of driving straight to their own.
Among other neutral places, Bridgeview is protected by the unspoken rule of the Mafia families of Chicago: no one is allowed to spill blood there. And unlike the Mexicans, we abide by the rules, so when we get there I'll have to let them be. But that doesn't mean that I can't grab my chance at killing these rats while they're on our land.
I scare a few pedestrians on sharp turns, but they should know better than to get in the way of my car. Living in the Messinas’ territory means staying out of our business, following our rules, and keeping their mouths shut. In exchange, they get to live under our protection, which is crucial for doing all kinds of dirty business in Chicago.
Other cars stay out of my way, pulling to the sides and keeping the road clear for me so I can get closer to the Mexicans. But as soon as I drive close enough, I see one of them emerge out of the passenger window with a gun in hand. Shit. This fucking—
I only have a second to brace myself before the Mexican fires at my car. His bullets ricochet off my hood and bumper, but when two of them reach the windshield, the bulletproof glass gives the first crack. Son of a bitch. I tighten my grip on the wheel and push the accelerator harder, catching up with the car.
I hear them yell something in Spanish, their car weaves in the lane, and a moment later more bullets pour onto the surface of my car. Shit. I clench my jaw with a heated wave of fury and adrenaline in my veins. Where is Omero?
The car vibrates dangerously, and the windshield turns into a spiderweb of cracks—but it doesn’t make me slow down. I know these streets like the back of my hand, so even with my vision obscured I manage to keep up with the Mexicans and bump into them from behind. Oh, if only I could get a little closer, I’d be able to hit them hard enough to make their car lose traction and send them off the road.
I guess they figure that out as well because I see their car pick up speed to the point that it drifts on the next crossroad—and all of a sudden, another car drives into their side from the other direction. It’s Omero catching up with us right on the border of our territories, and I can’t help but laugh from excitement. It’s the perfect timing!
The Mexicans weave to the right from the impact, and when I catch up from behind I see the driver’s panic in the frantic movements of the car. Yes, yes!
“Thomas, open fire!” I yell through the open window, keeping my bumper pressed to their car. A second later, I hear gunshots.
Omero’s car is close to mine, and the gun makes my ears ring for a moment. Shit. It forces me to slow down while I come back to my senses, but I keep my focus on the Mexican car. It’s bulletproof as well, but the vibrations from Thomas’ bullets make it shake. We’re so close to getting them, we’re so—
Suddenly, Thomas’ gun goes quiet, and from the corner of my eye I see their car slowing down. What the hell are they doing? It gives the Mexicans an open pass to get out of our trap, and they immediately speed up. Goddamnit!
I growl out loud and, as soon as my phone rings I pick it up. “What the fuck was that?!”
“Sorry, but we didn’t want to get everyone in trouble.”
What do you mean? I want to ask, but it dawns on me before I get even a word out. Shit. We’re already in Bridgeview, and I realize it just in time to slow down and come to a stop at a red light. Here, I can’t rely on the power of my family name to get away with every broken law.
I curse under my breath as I watch the Mexican car drive away. I see a flash of the bullet holes in its passenger door as it turns left and disappears from my sight. Goddamnit. We were so close to forcing them to crash or surrender, but now it’s too late. I don’t want to risk our status in neutral territory.
“Should we follow them?” Omero asks a few seconds later, reminding me of his presence, and I catch sight of his car in the rearview mirror. He’s one car behind me in the traffic line, waiting for further instructions, and no matter how much it pisses me off, I have to admit my defeat.
“No, go back to the base. Report to Paolo everything that happened.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lights switch to green, and I see Omero turn on his blinker and merge into the traffic leading around the block. But I leave him behind and continue forward, driving deeper into the neutral territory of Bridgeview while looking for a place to park. Not gonna lie, I’m tempted to follow the Mexicans—but that fight is over.
Now, I have something else in mind.
It may seem like the neutral territories are safe and peaceful, but in truth, they are much more dangerous than any other. Even if the members of all Mafia clans have no right to raise their weapons, we are still allowed to enter and do our business here. This is why all neutral territories are usually swarming with spies and pawns of the three biggest Mafia families of Chicago—Messina, Escarra, and Pushkov.
I find an empty spot in the parking lot of a local community park and get out of the car to assess how bad it looks. We’ll have to replace the windshield, but apart from that, there are only a few traces of bullets on the black surface of the hood. Well, it’s better than I expected.
I send a quick text and a photo of the car to Matteo, my cousin, just to give him more time to prepare the instruments. He’s in charge of distributing the tasks between our workers, and I don’t want to bother Riccardo with today’s events. At least, not yet. For now, I want to focus on looking for any traces of these goddamn Mexicans.
You see, they’ve been sneaking through our borders all too often lately, and I don’t think it’s just a coincidence. The patrols always say that they don’t see any cars passing into our zone, and if they care about their lives they wouldn’t lie about something so important. This leaves me with the only explanation—there is a hole in our security, and the sooner we find it, the better.
“Sir?”
It doesn’t take long to find one of our men near the border. I know the spots where they usually spend their watches—after all, I had to go through the same training to climb to a higher position in the family. These days, I focus my attention on more important tasks than spending hours at observation points and inspecting every unusual car crossing the border.
“At ease, boy.” I pat the young man on the shoulder and give him a chuckle, trying to remember his name. Adrian, maybe? I’ve seen the guy a few times before, but he’s still only a recruit, and I notice how he keeps his back straight, trying to look confident in my presence.
Does he want to impress me? I smirk and look away, shaking my head. New guys are always so easy to spot.
“Have you seen anything interesting today?”
“I saw your race with the Mexicans, sir.” Adrian turns to me, and I see a glint of awe in his wide eyes. “It was so cool!”
Cool, huh? I huff under my breath and glance at him. God, how old is he? Probably seventeen. That’s when they get old enough to run away from home, realize how harsh the world is, and come to our doorstep, begging us to accept them. If they pass Matteo’s screening, they take the lowest place in the clan and slowly make their way up, although they never get as high as the blood relatives of the Messina family.
Anyway, I’m allowing my thoughts to run too far from the conversation.
“Thanks, but did you see them crossing the border?”
Adrian straightens his shoulders and purses his lips. “No, sir. I would immediately report it if I saw something suspicious.”
“Alright, good.” That gives me nothing, though. “Have you seen anyone else today?”
He hums and frowns in deep thought. “Yes, I’ve seen a few Russians walking around, but they kept their distance. Ah, and Don Riccardo crossed the border a few hours ago, but he’s already returned.”
Riccardo has been out and about? I hum and look away, trying not to show my confusion. That’s interesting. He rarely leaves the safety of our territory unless it’s something important—being the head of our family makes him the most valuable target for everyone around. Could something have happened?
I shake my head. It’s none of my business, really. Whatever it is, I’m sure Riccardo will tell me later—for now, I have to focus on my own agenda.
“Okay. Good job. Let me know if you see anything weird.” I nod at Adrian and turn away when I hear him let out a hesitant noise.
“Uh, sir?” I turn around. Adrian frowns, clearly doubting his decision to speak up, and I quirk my eyebrow in a silent question. Whatever it is, he has to hurry up. “I don’t know if it’s important, but I saw a girl today.”
Oh, a girl? I huff under my breath. “Good for you.”
I’m not gonna give him relationship advice, but before I turn away, Adrian waves a hand and rushes to explain, “No, I mean—I’ve seen her a few times over the last couple of weeks. She never tries to cross the border, so I haven’t reported her, but…I don’t know, isn’t it weird that she shows up here?”
I frown and turn to face him properly. “What does she do?”
“Oh, not much. She just hangs around for a bit before walking or driving away.” He visibly deflates, probably cursing himself for speaking about it. “Maybe she’s just working somewhere near here, I don’t know.”
“Then you would see her every day,” I say more to myself than to him and hum. This information may be important, actually. “Does she look Hispanic?”
Adrian clears his throat. “No, actually…I think she looks more like a Russian.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I can’t help but close my eyes for a second to take control of the wave of frustration in my veins. If those damn freaks are planning something against us—
But I breathe out my anger and look at Adrian with a habitually cool expression under which my mind is still boiling. “Thanks, Adrian. If you see her again, let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, I finally walk away, although I can barely focus on the Mexicans with Adrian’s words still ringing in my head. Another conflict with the Russian Bratva is the last damn thing we need right now. It’s been over a year since we signed the truce with our formal enemies. They can’t just break it out of nowhere, right? Not while we have Elena.
You see, the Russians had been our number one enemies for decades. The war between two of the most powerful families of Chicago was long, bloody, and merciless—until a common enemy forced us to switch attention. The Mexicans made their grand appearance on the scene of the Mafia world with the murder of Cassio Messina, Riccardo’s father and previous don of the Messina Clan.
When we found out that it was the Escarra family who was responsible for his death, Riccardo swore to take his revenge and kill every last one of the Mexicans. But it turned out to be harder than any of us had expected—mostly because the war with the Russian Bratva had been exhausting our resources for years. So, to kill two birds with one stone, Riccardo decided to form an alliance with the Russians.
Of course, that was easier said than done, and when Yuriy Pushkov, the head of the Bratva, demanded that we prove our intentions, Riccardo announced that he would marry Yuriy’s niece, Elena Pushkova. I didn’t think it was a good idea as I knew that the two of them had been rivals in high school—but it worked out quite well.
Yes, it took some time for Elena and Riccardo to find their way around each other. After all, Elena had spent eight years hiding from her family and raising Riccardo’s son in secret, so they had quite a few things to resolve. But now they are obnoxiously in love, and Elena is even carrying his second child. What a sweet story that leaves everyone happy, huh?
Only it isn’t. Because the Russians have been not been very good at keeping their promises.
They helped us once, okay, but it was because Elena and her son were in danger. The Bratva showed up in the middle of our fight with the Mexicans and saved the day—but that was the only time they were actually helpful. But ever since that day, the Russians have been quiet about their part of the deal.
The Bratva is supposed to help us deal with the Mexicans and avenge Cassio, but it looks like they don’t give a shit. Well, at least they don’t try to kill our men, steal our territories, and take over the crown of Chicago, so thanks for that. Although with this new piece of information from Adrian, I can’t be sure anymore.
After the Mexicans’ blatant betrayal, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a Russian knife in our back. But it’s too early to think about it. One recruit being weirded out by a girl’s behavior isn’t enough of a reason to switch our attention from the Mexicans.
I spend the next couple of hours driving from one observation point to the other, checking other guards and asking about the Mexican car. Everyone says they’ve seen nothing, and it starts to piss me off. It’s impossible for the goddamn car to appear out of nowhere, right? They had to have crossed the border somewhere!
The sun is already setting when I reach the southern part of our border with Bridgeview and slow down on the road near the stadium. It’s quiet, and the parking lot is empty save for a couple of cars, so I guess there’s no soccer practice today. I see the invisible border of Bridgeview where it meets Bedford Park, and that’s where the thought strikes me.
Bedford Park mostly consists of railroads and heavy industrial buildings that no one in the Mafia world is truly interested in. It’s considered a neutral territory and a good place for doing business. Plenty of deals have been stricken here, among the industrial rails, crumbling buildings, and never-ending hum of factories.
Wouldn’t it be a perfect place for crossing our borders away from unwanted eyes? Especially as we don’t have anyone to keep an eye on the ramp leading off Harlem Avenue—where it makes a loop and leads straight into our territory.
Bedford Park is considered a calm enough place that we don’t expect guests from there, and that’s exactly why the Mexicans would use it! God, how could I not see it earlier?
I feel a rush of adrenaline and excitement as I park a dozen feet away from the bridge. The hum and vibrations of the cars driving through Harlem Avenue fill my ears as soon as I get out, but I barely pay attention to the sounds. What’s important right now is to find out if my theory is correct—and my heart picks up its pace when I see evidence just a couple of minutes later.
Even in the growing twilight, I notice a couple of gravel paths wide enough for a car to weave along and over the rails, and one of them leads straight to the road. You wouldn’t see them on the map, and no one in my family cares enough to remember that they exist. It’s damn brilliant!
I’m sure it’s not gonna stop the Mexicans from sneaking into our territory any chance they have, but at least we’ll be ready to catch them here. All I need is to let Riccardo know, so I reach for my phone.
The bright screen blinds me in the darkness, but before I clear my vision I catch the sound of steps behind me—and the next moment I feel a cold touch of metal on my neck. Shit. Is that a gun?