“Chapter 5
We moved through the back alleys of the South Side, two ghosts in the blizzard. I led Elias to a safe house—a basement apartment owned by Sarah, my ex-wife. She was the only person in the world who knew the real Nick, the one without the “”Saint”” or the “”Sinner”” labels.
When she opened the door, she saw the blood and the guns, and she almost closed it again.
“”Five minutes,”” I pleaded. “”Just five minutes to get him warm.””
She let us in. The apartment smelled of lavender and toasted bread—a world so far removed from the warehouse that it made my head spin. Sarah looked at Elias, then at me.
“”You finally did it, didn’t you?”” she whispered. “”You finally broke him.””
“”I’m fixing it, Sarah.””
“”You can’t fix a broken soul with a wrench, Nick,”” she said, but she still brought out the first-aid kit.
As she tended to Elias’s hand, I sat at the small kitchen table, staring at my reflection in a darkened window. I looked old. The lines around my eyes were deep, carved by a decade of looking for exits that didn’t exist.
My phone buzzed. It was a video message from an unknown number.
I pressed play. It was Pops. He was sitting in my favorite chair at the bar, holding a photo of my daughter—Sarah’s daughter.
“”You’re a clever boy, Nick,”” Pops’ voice came through the speaker, calm and terrifying. “”But you forgot the first rule of the Saints. We are family. And family knows where the children sleep. Bring me Elias, and the girl stays tucked in. Bring me yourself, and maybe Sarah lives to mourn you. You have one hour. The bridge where we used to fish. You know the one.””
The phone went dead.
I felt a coldness in my gut that no Chicago winter could match. I looked at Sarah, who was laughing at something Elias had said through his tears. She didn’t know.
I looked at Elias. He was my blood. My brother. The boy I’d promised to protect.
Then I thought about my daughter. Her soft blonde hair. The way she called me “”Daddy”” even though I didn’t deserve it.
The moral choice wasn’t a choice at all. It was an execution.
“”Elias,”” I said, my voice steady. “”We have to go. I found a way out. A boat is waiting at the bridge.””
Elias looked at me, hope flickering in his battered eyes. “”Really? We’re leaving? Together?””
“”Together,”” I lied.
Sarah grabbed my arm as we headed for the door. “”Nick… don’t do what I think you’re doing.””
“”I’m doing what has to be done,”” I said, kissing her forehead. It felt like a goodbye.
We drove to the old fishing bridge. The snow was falling so thick you couldn’t see ten feet in front of the car. The world was white and silent, a blank canvas for the red that was about to be spilled.
Chapter 6
The bridge was a skeletal structure of rusted steel over the frozen river. Pops was waiting in the center, flanked by Jax—his leg bandaged—and a dozen other riders. Their headlights cut through the snow like the eyes of predators.
I stopped the car fifty yards away.
“”Stay here,”” I told Elias. “”I need to talk to them first. Secure the passage.””
“”Nick, wait,”” Elias grabbed my sleeve. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled photograph. It was the two of us as kids, standing in front of a beat-up Ford. “”I kept this. Even when I was high. Even when I hated you. I remembered who you used to be.””
I took the photo. My hand trembled. “”I remember him too, Elias. He was a better man than me.””
I stepped out into the cold. The wind whipped my coat around my legs. I walked toward Pops, my hands raised.
“”Where is he?”” Pops asked.
“”He’s in the car,”” I said. “”Where’s my daughter?””
Pops nodded to Jax, who held up a tablet showing a live feed of my daughter’s bedroom. She was sleeping, peaceful and unaware.
“”She’s safe,”” Pops said. “”For now. Give us the boy, Nick. He’s the only witness to your little ‘Russian’ treason. We kill the witness, we bury the story, and you… well, you go back to being my Saint. But you’ll never leave the Club. You’ll be mine until the day you die.””
“”And the Russians?””
“”Vance took care of them. No loose ends. Only you and the kid.””
I looked back at the car. I could see the silhouette of my brother. He was waiting for me. Waiting for his hero.
I turned back to Pops. “”He’s my brother.””
“”And she’s your daughter,”” Pops countered. “”Choose, Saint. Blood or the Patch.””
I closed my eyes. I thought about the secret I’d kept. I hadn’t just orchestrated the kidnapping to move up in the Club. I’d done it because I’d stolen half a million dollars from the Club’s offshore accounts six months ago to pay for Elias’s rehabs and my own gambling debts. I needed a distraction, a “”crisis”” to explain why the money was moving.
I wasn’t a hero. I wasn’t even a good villain. I was just a man drowning, trying to pull everyone else down to make a bridge to the shore.
“”Elias!”” I screamed.
Elias stepped out of the car, shielding his eyes from the headlights. “”Nick?””
“”Run!”” I yelled, pulling my hidden backup piece and firing at the lead bike’s gas tank.
The bridge erupted. An explosion of orange flame tore through the white snow. I didn’t aim for Pops. I aimed for the support cables. I’d rigged them with small charges an hour ago, a desperate “”Plan C”” I never thought I’d use.
The bridge groaned, a sound like a giant dying. Metal snapped. The center section where Pops and the riders stood began to tilt.
“”Nick, no!”” Elias ran toward me, not away.
The ground gave way. I grabbed a railing as the bridge collapsed into the icy river. I saw Jax scream as he slid into the dark water. I saw Pops vanish into the wreckage.
But Elias… Elias was sliding toward the edge.
I lunged for him, grabbing his hand. We hung there, suspended over the black abyss of the Chicago River. My muscles screamed. The metal under my other hand was slick with ice.
“”I’ve got you!”” I roared.
“”Let go, Nick,”” Elias whispered. He looked down at the water, then back at me. He saw the photo I’d dropped. It was fluttering on the edge of the abyss. “”You can’t save me. You already sold me. If I live, they’ll never stop hunting you. If I live, she’ll never be safe.””
“”Don’t you dare!””
“”You were right, Nick,”” Elias said, a strange, peaceful smile on his face. “”The world is cold. But you don’t have to be.””
He kicked off the rusted beam, his hand slipping from mine.
I screamed his name until my throat bled, but there was no answer. Only the sound of the wind and the groaning of the broken bridge.
I stood up, eventually. I walked back to the car. I looked at the tablet Jax had dropped. My daughter was still sleeping.
I drove away from the ruins of my life. I had the money. I had the “”promotion”” of being the only Saint left standing. I had everything I’d lied and murdered for.
But as I looked into the rearview mirror at the empty seat where my brother should have been, I realized the truth about Chicago.
The wind doesn’t just carve the bone; it hollows you out until there’s nothing left but the sound of the cold.”
