Chapter 2 - Thirty-Five Minutes Across Chicago
Riley regretted agreeing to the detour exactly four minutes later.
Matteo’s “meeting” was apparently taking place at Duca Development headquarters, a forty-story glass building beside the river where uniformed security guards controlled every entrance.
Riley stopped beside the curb.
“There.”
Matteo made no move to leave.
Riley looked at him.
“Your destination.”
“I see it.”
“Then this is traditionally the part where the passenger exits.”
He checked his watch.
“Wait here.”
“No.”
“I’ll be five minutes.”
“No.”
“Seven.”
“You’re learning nothing from this experience.”
He reached for the door.
Then stopped.
“Please.”
That word surprised her.
There was no authority in it.
No command.
Just a request.
Riley narrowed her eyes.
“You have seven minutes.”
Matteo got out.
Then leaned back through the open door.
“Don’t let anyone take my car.”
She stared at him.
“Get out.”
He smiled and shut the door.
Riley watched him disappear into the building.
She checked the time.
Then the sports car.
Then the building.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.
Her phone rang.
The screen showed MORGAN TOWING.
She answered.
“Yeah?”
Her younger brother’s voice came immediately.
“Please tell me you did not tow Matteo Duca’s car.”
Riley closed her eyes.
“Hello to you too, Connor.”
“Oh God.”
“How do you know?”
“It is apparently on social media.”
“Already?”
“There are three videos.”
“Of what?”
“You telling his security guard no.”
Riley leaned forward and rested her forehead briefly against the steering wheel.
Connor continued.
“One has twenty thousand views.”
“It happened fifteen minutes ago.”
“Welcome to the internet.”
“Wonderful.”
“And Riley?”
“What?”
“Dad saw it.”
That made her sit upright.
“How?”
“He has Facebook.”
“He uses Facebook?”
“He apparently discovered it yesterday.”
“Take his phone away.”
“I tried.”
A pause.
Then Connor said, “You okay?”
Riley looked toward the entrance of Duca Development.
“I’m fine.”
“Is he angry?”
“He climbed into my truck.”
Silence.
Then Connor said slowly, “Who?”
“Matteo.”
“Duca?”
“How many Matteos do you think I tow?”
“What do you mean he climbed into your truck?”
“He needed a ride.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
“Riley.”
“What?”
“Are you currently transporting one of the most powerful men in Chicago while towing his supercar?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand how insane that sentence is?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Just checking.”
Riley saw movement at the building entrance.
Matteo emerged.
But he was not alone.
A gray-haired man followed him.
They were arguing.
Even from twenty yards away Riley could see the tension.
The older man caught Matteo’s arm.
Matteo immediately pulled free.
The older man said something.
Matteo stopped.
Turned.
For a second, his face became completely expressionless.
Then he continued toward the truck.
Riley heard Connor through the phone.
“You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Get back to the yard.”
“That’s the plan.”
“And Riley?”
“What?”
“Maybe don’t antagonize any suspected crime dynasties on the way.”
“Helpful.”
“I try.”
She hung up.
Matteo opened the passenger door and climbed inside.
“You took nine minutes.”
He looked at her.
“You counted?”
“I charge by the hour.”
She pulled away from the curb.
For half a mile Matteo said nothing.
Riley finally spoke.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“You have the face of a man who just fired a relative.”
“I didn’t fire him.”
“Good.”
“I removed him from three boards.”
Riley glanced sideways.
“Oh.”
Matteo stared ahead.
“The meeting was supposed to approve a refinancing package for one of our older properties.”
“What was wrong with it?”
His head turned slowly.
“You understood that?”
“I own a business.”
“A towing business.”
“Which apparently means I’m incapable of reading loan documents?”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“It sounded exactly like what you meant.”
Matteo rubbed his jaw.
“The numbers didn’t match the supporting reports.”
“So somebody inflated something.”
“Possibly.”
“Expenses?”
“Property valuations.”
Riley shrugged.
“Same trick with nicer stationery.”
Matteo watched her.
“You’ve dealt with that?”
“My father nearly lost the yard eight years ago because someone changed the valuation on our property during a refinancing.”
Matteo became still.
“Which bank?”
Riley looked at him.
“Why?”
“Curious.”
“Midwest Continental.”
His expression changed.
Barely.
But Riley noticed.
“You know them?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“They handled several Duca loans years ago.”
“Small world.”
Matteo said nothing.
Riley continued driving.
A few minutes later he asked, “Your father still owns Morgan Towing?”
“Technically I do.”
“Technically?”
“He signed it over to me three years ago.”
“Why?”
“Because his heart decided sixty-two was old enough to start issuing formal complaints.”
Matteo looked at her.
“Heart attack?”
“Two.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He survived.”
“You say that like survival ended the argument.”
“You haven’t met Patrick Morgan.”
A smile touched Matteo’s face.
“I assume stubbornness runs in the family.”
Riley looked over.
“Careful.”
“I meant it respectfully.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“No.”
Riley laughed again.
This time she did not stop herself as quickly.
The tow yard appeared ahead.
Morgan Towing occupied an aging brick building behind a chain-link fence on a wedge of industrial land near the river.
Three tow trucks were parked along one wall.
A faded sign hung above the garage.
MORGAN TOWING & RECOVERY — FAMILY OWNED SINCE 1987.
Riley pulled through the gate.
Matteo studied the property.
He studied it much too carefully.
Riley noticed.
“What?”
“How long has your family owned this land?”
“Since before I was born.”
“Entire parcel?”
“Yes.”
Matteo looked toward the river.
Then toward the old warehouse neighboring the yard.
Something in his expression hardened.
Riley turned off the engine.
“Why?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing face.”
“I have a nothing face?”
“You have about four faces.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“You should be.”
Before he could answer, the garage door opened.
Connor Morgan stepped outside.
Thirty-two, red-haired, broad-shouldered and permanently dressed like he had been interrupted midway through repairing an engine, Connor stopped when he saw Matteo.
Then he looked at Riley.
Then Matteo again.
“Oh,” Connor said.
Riley climbed down.
“Very eloquent.”
Connor lowered his voice.
“You actually brought him here.”
“He refused to exit.”
“I’m beginning to understand why.”
Matteo stepped down from the passenger side.
Connor instinctively straightened.
Matteo extended a hand.
“Matteo Duca.”
Connor stared at it.
“I know.”
Riley elbowed him.
Connor shook Matteo’s hand.
“Connor Morgan.”
A voice came from inside the office.
“Riley!”
Patrick Morgan emerged.
He was sixty-five, heavyset, silver-haired, and walking with a cane he despised.
His eyes went immediately to Matteo.
Then to the black sports car.
Then to Riley.
“What did you do?”
Riley put both hands on her hips.
“Why does everyone assume I did something?”
Patrick pointed toward the car.
“Because there’s a Lamborghini on my daughter’s flatbed and Matteo Duca standing in my yard.”
“It was illegally parked.”
Patrick looked at Matteo.
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
Patrick looked back at Riley.
“Well.”
He shrugged.
“She got you.”
Matteo laughed.
Actually laughed.
Patrick nodded approvingly.
“I like him.”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“He owes us money.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t like him.”
They entered the office.
Riley prepared the release form.
Matteo paid the required fee without argument.
No bribe.
No threat.
No demand for special treatment.
That bothered Riley more than arrogance would have.
It made him harder to categorize.
She handed him the receipt.
“Congratulations. You have successfully retrieved your badly parked car.”
Matteo took the paper.
“I’ll treasure this.”
“You should frame it.”
“I might.”
He walked toward the door.
Then paused beside an old photograph hanging on the wall.
It showed Patrick Morgan twenty-five years younger beside Riley’s late mother, Ellen, standing in front of the original tow truck.
Behind them, partly visible, stood another man.
Matteo stared.
Riley noticed.
“You know him?”
Matteo looked at her.
“Who?”
She pointed at the third man.
“Him.”
Matteo’s face gave nothing away.
“No.”
But the answer came too quickly.
He left several minutes later.
Riley watched the Lamborghini disappear through the gate.
Connor stepped beside her.
“That was weird.”
“What?”
“The photo.”
Riley nodded.
“I know.”
Inside the office, Patrick was standing beneath it.
He looked pale.
“Dad?”
Patrick did not answer.
“Who is the man in the picture?”
Patrick finally turned toward her.
For the first time that afternoon, Riley saw genuine fear.
“Where did you meet Matteo Duca?”
“I towed his car. You were here for that part.”
“I mean before today.”
“Nowhere.”
Patrick gripped his cane tighter.
“You stay away from that family.”
Riley stared.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“I’m thirty-one, Dad.”
“And I’m still your father.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Patrick looked at the photograph.
Then slowly removed it from the wall.
“Nothing you need to know.”
He carried it into his office.
Riley followed.
“Dad.”
Patrick shut the door.
And for the first time in Riley’s life, he locked it behind him.
That evening, three blocks away, the same dark sedan that had followed Riley from the Mercer Grand sat with its headlights off.
Inside, a man photographed Morgan Towing.
Then he made a call.
“She brought Duca to the yard,” he said.
A voice answered.
“Did he see the photograph?”
“Yes.”
There was a long silence.
Then the voice said the words that would turn Riley Morgan’s life upside down.
May you like
“Then we have a problem.”
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