Chapter 158 (Elena's POV)

Chapter 158 (Elena's POV)

Sofia waited for me at the junkyard entrance.

She wore a dark hoodie, hood pulled low. A knife clutched in her hand.

"Inside," she said. "We've already tied him up."

I followed her in.

Rico's hands were bound behind him to a post. The technique wasn't sophisticated, but it was very tight—the rope had already cut into flesh.

His legs—ha! Both knees completely shattered. Blood everywhere.

Ferrante's people hadn't held back.

Maria stood before him.

She wore an oversized black coat, her belly's curve mostly hidden. In her hand, a steel pipe—probably scavenged from the scrap heap nearby.

Rico saw me approaching. A flicker of light passed through his swollen eyes.

Then he smiled.

Lips splitting open to reveal a gum line missing two teeth, blood seeping from the gums, mixing with saliva, dripping down his chin onto his chest.

"You came?" His voice was hoarse, but the tone still carried that punchable swagger. "What, three bitches coming to see me off?"

Sofia's fingers tightened on the knife.

"Look at you all—" He spat a bloody glob on the ground. "A slut I fucked for five years, a piece of trash I beat into a miscarriage, and one more—"

His gaze shifted to me, mouth stretching wider.

"A little girl pretending she's tough." He said. "You think you've won? The Ferrante family will—"

"The Ferrante family threw you out like garbage." I cut him off, crouching down to his eye level. "Right now you're nothing but a pile of trash that can't even stand on broken legs."

His smile froze for an instant.

I stood and looked at Sofia and Maria.

"He's yours," I said.

Sofia and Maria exchanged a glance.

"Who goes first?" Sofia asked.

Maria looked down at her belly, palm covering it, stroking once gently.

Then she lifted her head.

"Together."

Sofia drew the knife.

The blade caught a glint in the junkyard's dim light—brief, razor-sharp.

She walked to Rico and crouched.

Rico's eyes finally began to shift—from arrogance to wariness, then to something he'd probably never experienced from a woman before.

Fear.

"Do you remember Linh's wrist?" Sofia's voice was very soft, soft enough to nearly dissolve in the wind. "That scar."

Rico's Adam's apple bobbed.

"She was only four," Sofia continued. "You slashed her with a beer bottle. The bleeding wouldn't stop. She thought she was going to die, kept crying. I held her, pressed a towel to the wound, didn't dare go to the hospital—because you said if I took her there, you'd kill us both."

Her voice still trembled slightly.

But the knife tip was already pressed against Rico's inner thigh.

"Now—" Sofia's mouth curved slightly. "Linh will never cry again."

The blade plunged in instantly.

Rico's scream exploded through the junkyard—shrill, tearing, a howl erupting from the deepest part of his throat.

Sofia didn't stop.

The blade traced slowly along the inner thigh's arterial path—not deep, just enough to cut through the fat layer. Blood surged from both sides of the wound, running down his pant leg, pooling into a small dark puddle on the ground.

"Fuck—fuck you—!" Rico's body thrashed wildly, the rope making the iron post shake. "You're insane! You're fucking insane!"

Maria stepped forward.

She raised the steel pipe.

No hesitation.

The pipe crashed down on his right hand—the hand that had once struck her belly.

The sound of bone shattering was crisp, like snapping a dry twig.

"AHHH—!"

"This one," Maria bit every word crystal clear, "is for the child you beat out of me."

She raised the pipe. Brought it down on the left hand.

Another crisp crack.

"This one is for me."

Rico could no longer form complete words—only garbled wailing and curses remained.

"Please… please…" His voice changed, from swagger to a sobbing whine. "I was wrong… I shouldn't have… please don't…"

Sofia stood, looking down at him.

Blood from the knife tip dripped along the blade, drop by drop landing on the toe of her shoe.

"I begged you like that too, do you remember?" she asked, voice very soft. "When I was on my knees begging you not to hit Linh—what did you say?"

Rico's mouth moved, producing only whimpering sounds.

"You said—'Shut up, bitch. Cry again and I'll beat you too.'"

Sofia crouched, using the knife tip to lift his chin, forcing him to look at her.

"Now it's your turn to shut up."

I leaned against the container's iron wall, watching all of this with cold eyes.

When Sofia and Maria paused to catch their breath, I stepped forward.

Crouched before Rico.

His consciousness was already fading—blood loss plus pain, gaze unfocused, pupils dilated.

"Rico." I patted his face. "Don't sleep. I have a few questions."

His eyeballs rolled toward me with effort.

"Does Ferrante have other contact points in Chicago? Besides the South Side docks and the West Suburb auto parts shop."

His lips moved.

"Talk," I said flatly. "Talk and I'll have them give you a quick end."

A glimmer of survival flickered in his eyes—a drowning man grasping the last straw.

"North… North Side…" His voice scraped from his throat. "Michigan Avenue… 1200… dry cleaner…"

"Contact person?"

"A guy… called Tony… bald… scar on left ear…"

I noted it down, stood, and stepped back.

Hope exploded in his eyes.

I smiled very gently, then turned to Sofia and Maria.

"He's all yours."

Amid his crumbling shrieks, I turned and left.

Behind me came the dull thud of the steel pipe falling.

I walked to the junkyard's edge, leaned against a scrapped pickup truck, and tilted my head to the sky.

Chicago's night sky showed few stars—too much light pollution. But tonight the clouds were thin, moonlight filtering through, dyeing the entire junkyard a cold blue.

About an hour passed.

Sofia emerged first.

Blood spattered her hoodie—dark, nearly invisible on black fabric.

The knife was put away, tucked in her pocket.

Her face held no expression.

Maria followed close behind.

The steel pipe had been left inside. Both hands empty, hanging at her sides.

Her hands were shaking—but her eyes were dry.

No tears.

"Done?" I asked.

Both women nodded.

I didn't ask for details.

Didn't need to.

"Let's go," I said. "I'll take you back."

Sofia followed me toward the motorcycle.

Maria stayed where she was.

I looked back at her.

"I'm not going back to the safe house," she said, voice soft but steady. "I'm going to find Giulia."

Her hand rested on her belly, mouth curving the slightest bit—a shallow arc, but more real than any smile I'd ever seen from her.

"She's waiting for me in Naples," she said. "We're… going to be free."

I walked back and gave her a big hug.

She froze for a moment, then hugged me back.

"Go," I said. "Take care of yourself and the baby."

Her eyes reddened.

But still no tears.

She released my hand, turned, and walked toward the exit on the other side of the junkyard—where a taxi waited, engine still running.

A few steps away, she turned back.

"Elena."

"Mm."

"Thank you for teaching me—that I have a choice."

She turned and jogged into the taxi.

Headlights flared, pulling into the night.

I watched the taillights vanish around the corner, and let out a long breath.

On the ride back, Sofia sat behind me, arms wrapped around my waist.

The wind was fierce, pouring into my collar, bone-chillingly cold.

But Sofia's forehead pressed against my back, breathing steady.

"Boss." Her voice came in fragments, torn by the wind.

"Mm."

"From now on… I won't be afraid anymore."

I didn't answer.

Just twisted the throttle a little higher.

The engine's roar drowned everything out.

Back at the apartment, Sofia went to shower.

I sat on the living room sofa, mind still turning.

Rico was dead.

The Ferrante family had crippled him themselves, then we'd finished the job.

Perfect.

But—

Ferrante wasn't stupid.

Rico's expulsion was for "gambling violations." The anonymous tip was written convincingly as an insider's voice, evidence sufficiently compelling.

But if they went back and looked carefully—

The timing of the tip and Maria's disappearance were too close together.

And Maria's disappearance was connected to me—

If Ferrante traced that layer, they'd know: Rico wasn't simply reported by an insider. A hand had been pushing the whole thing from behind.

Time was running out.

I picked up my phone and dialed Adrian's number.

Two rings and he answered.

"Elena? This late—"

"The federal investigation evidence submission," I cut in, "can it be moved up?"

A second of silence on the other end.

"Yes," he said, tone switching instantly from sleepy to alert. "But moving up means less preparation. Parts of the evidence chain aren't fully closed. Prosecution may request supplementary materials."

"What are the odds?"

"If we follow the original plan, ninety percent. Moved up—seventy."

Seventy percent.

Thirty percent chance of failure.

If it failed—Ferrante wouldn't just survive, they'd know who'd been stabbing them in the back.

At that point, their retaliation would be a hundred times fiercer than the gunfire in that Palermo church.

I closed my eyes.

My great-uncle's words echoed—"The reason an olive tree can live for centuries isn't because it grows the fastest. It's because its roots go the deepest."

But sometimes, the storm doesn't wait for your roots to set.

"Seventy is enough," I said. "Begin."