Rio lasted three days.
Three days of pouring drinks and watching Tommy and Mary fall in love. Three days of perfect routine and crushing boredom. Three days of waking up with Angelo's letter burning a hole in his nightstand drawer and going to sleep with fragments whispering about things he shouldn't know.
On the fourth day, he closed the speakeasy early.
"You're really doing this," Sarah said, watching him pack. Not a question.
"Probably a terrible idea."
"Definitely a terrible idea." She leaned against the doorframe of his apartment, arms crossed. "You going to tell me why?"
Rio folded a shirt. Didn't look at her. "Old friend needs help."
"The ghost from the other night?"
"Angelo. Yeah."
"He didn't look like he wanted help. He looked like he wanted a weapon."
Smart woman. Rio had always appreciated that about her. "Maybe I'm bored enough to be one."
"You're going to get yourself killed."
"Wouldn't be the first time." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Sarah's expression shifted. "Rio—"
"I mean it feels that way. Dangerous situation. You know." He smiled, forced it to reach his eyes. "I'll be fine. Always am."
"Will you come back?"
"Honestly? I don't know."
She was quiet for a moment. Then pushed off the doorframe and crossed to him. Kissed his cheek. "The speakeasy's yours when you do. If you do."
"Give it six months. If I'm not back, it's yours. Papers are with my lawyer."
"Rio—"
"I mean it. You've earned it." He closed the suitcase. Traveled light—always had. Never knew when you'd need to run. "Take care of yourself, Sarah."
"You too, you idiot."
The address Angelo had given him led to a apartment building in a part of Chicago Rio recognized but had never visited. Third floor. Door on the left. He knocked.
Angelo opened it like he'd been waiting. Probably had been.
"Knew you'd come," Angelo said.
"Don't sound so smug about it." Rio pushed past him into the apartment. Small. Sparse. Temporary. The kind of place where no one lived, they just existed between other things. "Nice place. Really screams 'I have no intention of staying.'"
"I don't."
The two women from the bar sat at a small table. Didn't introduce themselves. Didn't need to. They were the type Rio recognized from fragments—professionals who knew how to disappear, how to keep secrets, how to make problems go away.
"They helping?" Rio asked.
"They already did." Angelo moved to the table, picked up a folder. "Avilio Bruno. Complete identity. Birth certificate, work history, references. Everything the Vanettis will check."
"And me?"
"You're Rio Ceriano. No need to hide. You weren't there that night—not in any records. The Vanettis don't know your name." Angelo handed him the folder. "You're just my friend from Chicago. Former speakeasy owner looking for new opportunities."
Rio flipped through the documents. Professional work. Expensive. "Who's financing this?"
"Does it matter?"
"It might."
"Someone who wants the Vanettis gone as much as I do." Angelo's voice was flat. Final. No more questions.
Rio let it drop. Wasn't his business anyway. He was just along for the inevitable disaster.
One of the women stood. "We're done here. Avilio Bruno exists. What you do with him is your problem."
They left without another word. Professionals indeed.
"So," Rio said into the silence. "Lawless, Illinois. The Vanetti crime family. Your suicide mission. What's the actual plan?"
"Corteo's already there. Set up a brewery. Making quality bootleg whiskey."
"Corteo? Brewing?" Rio couldn't help but smile. "That's actually perfect for him. Chemistry and avoiding violence."
"Exactly. He's our in. The Vanettis will want his product. We use that connection to get close."
"And then?"
Angelo's eyes went cold. "Then we destroy them. Slowly. From within. Turn the families against each other. Watch them tear themselves apart."
The fragments stirred. Rio knew this pattern. Had seen it before. Lived it, maybe. Died from it, probably. Revenge plots that spiraled into massacres. Families destroying each other while the instigators got caught in the crossfire.
"You know this ends badly," Rio said.
"I know this ends with them dead."
"And probably us too."
"If that's the price." Angelo met his eyes. "I'm already dead, Rio. I died the night they killed my family. I'm just finishing what they started."
"Poetic." Rio dropped into a chair. "And depressing. Have you always been this dramatic or is this new?"
"You joke about everything."
"Better than brooding about everything." Rio studied his childhood friend. Seven years could change people—he knew that. But this was more than time. This was transformation. Angelo Lagusa had died that night. Something colder had taken his place. "You really think you can do this? Infiltrate the family that killed yours, gain their trust, destroy them, and walk away?"
"I don't need to walk away."
"Right. Because you're already dead." Rio sighed. "What about Corteo? He want to die too?"
"Corteo wants to survive. He'll help because he doesn't know how not to."
Accurate. Corteo had always been the one who followed, who helped, who couldn't abandon friends even when he should.
"And me?" Rio asked. "What do you think I want?"
Angelo was quiet for a moment. Then: "I think you want to feel alive. Even if it kills you."
Damn.
He wasn't wrong.
"Tell me the real plan," Rio said. "Not the revenge fantasy. The actual steps."
Angelo pulled out a map. Spread it on the table. Lawless, Illinois marked with precise detail. Territory divisions. Family operations. Power structures.
"The Vanetti family controls most of Lawless. Don Vincent Vanetti runs everything. His son Nero is being groomed to take over. Another son, Frate, works in the background. Underboss named Ganzo handles operations."
Rio's fragments supplied information before Angelo could. Traditional structure. Don at the top, underboss managing, sons positioned for succession. Soldiers below. Associates below them. Path to power through proving loyalty and value.
"The Orco family is their main competition," Angelo continued. "Don Orco wants what the Vanettis have. They're close to war."
"And you're going to push them into it."
"I'm going to make sure they destroy each other. While we're inside the Vanetti operation."
"How?"
"By being useful. Corteo's liquor will get us in the door. My skills with—handling problems—will make me valuable. Your ability to read people, to manipulate them, will make you invaluable."
Rio studied the map. Saw the territories. The boundaries. The weak points. Fragments feeding him information he shouldn't have. The docks are key. Supply lines matter. The Orco family will strike there first if war comes. The Galassia family to the south will wait and profit from weakness.
"There's a third family," Rio said, pointing to an unmarked area on the map. "Galassia. You haven't mentioned them."
Angelo's expression shifted. Surprise. "How did you know that?"
"Lucky guess." Lie. Fragments. Always fragments. "What about them?"
"They're neutral. For now. Waiting to see who wins."
"Which means they'll be the real winners. The Vanettis and Orcos destroy each other, the Galassias move in and take everything."
"That's not my problem."
"It will be if we're still there when it happens."
Angelo folded the map. "One problem at a time. First, we get in. We prove ourselves. We become trusted."
"And then?"
"Then we make them bleed."
The train to Lawless left the next morning.
Rio spent the night in Angelo's temporary apartment, staring at the ceiling, listening to his friend—former friend? Current ally?—breathe in the other room. Wondering what the hell he was doing.
You're bored, the honest part of his brain supplied. You've been dying slowly for seven years. At least this way it'll be interesting.
The fragments agreed. Whispered about combat and danger and the sharp clarity that came with survival situations. About living on the edge where every choice mattered.
About finally feeling alive.
Sleep came in pieces. Dreams fragmented further. Memories that might have been his, might have been someone else's. Blood on expensive suits. Bourbon mixed with gunpowder. The sound of Tommy guns in narrow streets. A woman's laugh. A man's scream.
He woke up sweating.
Angelo was already awake. Making coffee. Moving with the mechanical precision of someone who didn't sleep much anymore.
"Bad dreams?" Angelo asked without turning.
"Something like that."
"You get used to them."
"That's depressing."
"That's reality."
They drank coffee in silence. Neither of them good at small talk. Never had been, even as kids. Shared trauma created bonds, not conversation skills.
"Corteo knows we're coming?" Rio asked eventually.
"Sent him a telegram yesterday. He'll meet us at the station."
"How's he doing?"
"Scared. Brilliant. Trying to convince himself this is just business."
"Is it?"
"No."
The train station was crowded. People going places, coming back, existing in the space between departure and arrival. Rio watched them with the detached interest of someone who'd seen too many crowds, too many faces, too many lives that started and ended in transit.
Angelo moved through the crowd like smoke. There and not there. Drawing no attention. The kind of invisibility Rio recognized from fragments—the ability to be forgettable, unremarkable, beneath notice.
Rio had never mastered that. He was too handsome, too magnetic, too much himself to disappear. So he went the other direction—memorable for the right reasons, charming enough that people remembered the smile instead of the danger.
They boarded. Found a compartment. Settled in for the journey.
"How long to Lawless?" Rio asked.
"Eight hours."
"Great. Eight hours of your sparkling conversation."
"You can always jump off."
"Tempting."
The train lurched into motion. Chicago disappeared behind them. Illinois countryside rolled past the window—flat, endless, boring.
Rio pulled out the letter Angelo had given him. Read it again. The Vanetti family's careful language. The opportunity being offered. The expectation of loyalty and results.
"They're going to test us," Rio said.
"I know."
"Probably violently."
"I'm counting on it."
"And if we fail?"
"We won't."
"That's not an answer."
Angelo looked at him. Really looked. "If we fail, we die. Simple."
"Nothing about this is simple."
"No. But it's necessary."
Rio folded the letter. Tucked it away. Watched the countryside blur past. "You remember that night? The massacre?"
Angelo was quiet for a long moment. "Every detail."
"I don't. Not really. Just fragments. Blood. Screaming. Running. Corteo crying. You not crying." Rio turned from the window. "You were always the strong one."
"I was the cold one. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. Strong people feel things and push through. Cold people stop feeling." Angelo's voice was distant. "I stopped feeling that night. It was easier."
"And now?"
"Now I don't know if I could feel even if I wanted to."
The honesty was jarring. Rio had expected bravado, rage, heat. Instead, Angelo offered ice and acceptance.
"What if you succeed?" Rio asked. "What if you destroy them all? Then what?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."
"You should. Because revenge might be all you have left."
"Better than nothing."
Rio wasn't sure about that. But he didn't argue.
Three hours into the journey, the compartment door slid open.
A man in a conductor's uniform stood there. Wrong size. Wrong stance. Fragments screaming warnings before Rio's conscious mind caught up.
Gun under the jacket. Left side. Revolver. Professional carry.
"Tickets," the man said.
Angelo handed them over without hesitation. The man inspected them. Too carefully. Too long.
"Heading to Lawless?" the man asked.
"Business opportunity," Angelo said. Avilio Bruno's voice. Different cadence. Different energy. The transformation was seamless.
"What kind of business?"
"The profitable kind."
The man smiled. Handed back the tickets. "Enjoy your trip."
He left.
Rio waited until the door closed. "Test?"
"Probably."
"The Vanettis checking if we're really coming?"
"Or the Orcos checking if we're a threat. Or the Galassias checking if we're useful." Angelo didn't seem concerned. "Everyone watches everyone in Lawless."
"Fantastic. I love being watched."
"You'll have to get used to it."
The rest of the journey passed in tense silence. Rio dozed. Dreamed fragments. Woke up disoriented, hand reaching for weapons he wasn't carrying.
Angelo never slept. Just stared out the window with dead eyes.
Lawless appeared on the horizon as the sun began to set. Small city. Industrial. Smokestacks against the darkening sky. The kind of place that looked prosperous from a distance and dangerous up close.
"There it is," Angelo said. "Our new home."
"Or our grave."
"Maybe both."
The train pulled into the station. They gathered their minimal luggage. Stepped onto the platform into the humid Illinois evening.
And there was Corteo.
Seven years older. Thicker glasses. More nervous energy. Still fundamentally himself—the one who helped, who followed, who couldn't abandon friends.
"You actually came," Corteo said, staring at Rio.
"Against my better judgment."
"Mine too." Corteo pulled him into an embrace. Quick, awkward. "God, it's good to see you."
"You too, Corteo."
They pulled apart. Corteo looked at Angelo—Avilio now. "Everything ready?"
"The brewery?"
"Operational. Quality product. The Vanettis will want it." Corteo's voice was quiet. Scared. "Are we really doing this?"
"Yes," Angelo said.
"It's going to get us killed."
"Probably."
"Then why—"
"Because they need to pay." Angelo's voice was ice. "And we're the ones collecting."
Corteo looked at Rio. Pleading. Tell him this is insane. Tell him to stop.
Rio shrugged. "I'm just here for the excitement."
"You're all crazy."
"Probably," Rio agreed. "But it's better than boring."
Corteo sighed. The sound of someone accepting the inevitable. "The car's outside. I'll take you to the brewery. You can stay there until—until we figure out the next step."
They followed him through the station. Out into Lawless proper.
The city was bigger than Rio expected. Streets busy despite the evening hour. Cars mixing with horse-drawn wagons. Electric lights fighting gas lamps. The smell of industry and bootleg liquor and something darker underneath.
Fragments whispered recognition. This is a crime city. Built on illegal profit. Corruption in the bones. Everyone's on someone's payroll.
"Welcome to Lawless," Corteo said, driving through streets with the care of someone who'd learned the dangers. "Population: declining. Industry: bootlegging and violence. Motto: keep your head down and maybe you'll survive."
"Cheerful," Rio said.
"Accurate."
They passed speakeasies with hidden entrances. Warehouses that were definitely more than warehouses. Alleys too dark to see into. People who looked away as they passed.
"The Vanetti family controls downtown," Corteo explained. "The Orco family has the docks and industrial area. Everyone else pays tribute to one or the other. Or both."
"And your brewery?"
"Technically neutral ground. But everyone knows I supply the Vanettis." Corteo's hands tightened on the wheel. "Which means if war comes, I'm a target."
"Then we better make sure you're protected," Rio said.
"How?"
"By making ourselves indispensable."
The brewery appeared—converted warehouse in the industrial district. Not beautiful, but functional. Corteo parked behind it.
"Home sweet home," he said without enthusiasm.
Inside, the smell of brewing liquor hit immediately. Chemical and sweet. Equipment hummed. Copper stills gleamed under harsh lighting.
"This is actually impressive," Rio said, examining the setup. Fragments supplying knowledge he shouldn't have. Good equipment. Quality process. This will produce excellent product.
"Thanks." Corteo managed a weak smile. "At least if we die, it'll be while doing something I'm good at."
"That's the spirit."
They climbed stairs to the living quarters above. Simple. Functional. Three rooms. Three beds.
"It's not much," Corteo said.
"It's perfect," Angelo replied. Avilio. Had to remember the name. "This is where we start."
Rio dropped his bag on one of the beds. Looked out the window at Lawless spreading below them. Lights coming on as darkness fell. The city transforming into something else. Something dangerous.
"So," he said, turning back to his friends. Former friends. Current allies. Whatever they were now. "What's the actual plan? How do we get the Vanettis' attention?"
"We already have it," Angelo said. He pulled out another letter. This one newer. "Don Vanetti's people reached out. They want to meet. Tomorrow."
"Fast."
"They're interested in Corteo's product. And in new associates who might be useful."
"And if they decide we're not useful?"
"Then we make them change their minds." Angelo's smile was cold. "Or we die trying."
"Those are really our only two options?"
"Yes."
Rio looked at Corteo. At Angelo. At the life he'd walked away from for this suicide mission.
"You know what?" he said. "Next time I feel bored, remind me that boredom is actually good. Boredom means you're alive and likely to stay that way."
"There won't be a next time," Angelo said.
He was probably right.
Rio poured three glasses from the whiskey Corteo kept for personal use. Handed them out.
"To questionable decisions," he said, raising his glass.
"To revenge," Angelo added.
"To survival," Corteo finished quietly.
They drank.
The whiskey was good. Quality work.
Tomorrow, they'd meet the Vanettis. Tomorrow, everything would change.
Tonight, they were three survivors pretending they had a plan.
Rio went to bed wondering which of them would die first.
The fragments had opinions but no answers.