After Surviving a Bribe-Free $40 Million Syndicate Brake-Sabotage Ambush, a Rebuilding Mafia Boss Faces His Traitorous Protégé Step-Brother and an African Grey Parrot in a Unanimous Battle for Rede...
“How much?” I asked, pushing a small stack of bills across the Formica table. The money was a fraction of what I still had access to, carefully siphoned off before Julian’s campaign solidified.
Aris glanced at the cash, then back at me. “My lab isn’t exactly a discount outlet. For full acoustic isolation, spectral analysis, and noise reduction… it’s typically ten thousand dollars.”
I didn’t flinch. Ten thousand dollars was a pittance compared to the forty million I stood to lose, and my very life besides. This wasn’t about money; it was about proving I wasn’t insane.
“Done,” I said, pushing over another stack. “Can you start tonight?”
She nodded, a serious expression settling on her face. “I can. Bring me the recording. My lab is just a few towns over. I’ll give you a call as soon as I have something concrete.”
The next three days were a purgatory of waiting. Julian’s smear campaign raged, infecting every corner of the Chicago underworld. My name was mud. Loyalties wavered. The elders were holding their ground, but their patience wouldn’t last forever.
Then, Aris called. Her voice was crisp, professional. “I have something for you, Mr. Moretti. The engine signature. It’s very clear now.”
I drove immediately to her lab, a surprisingly sterile space filled with glowing monitors and complex sound equipment. Aris greeted me, her purple hair a stark contrast to the white lab coat she now wore.
“Take a listen,” she said, dimming the lights and playing a new audio file.
This time, there was no parrot’s voice, no Julian. Only the deep, resonant thrum of an engine. It was distinct, powerful, with a unique rumble in its lower register.
“It’s not just a custom exhaust,” Aris explained, pointing to a waveform on a monitor. “It’s a very specific, hand-tuned exhaust. I cross-referenced it with several databases—classic car shows, racing circuit recordings, even old police records of modified vehicles.”
She paused, turning to face me. “There’s only one match in the Chicago area with that precise signature. It belongs to a 1978 Ford F-250, heavily customized, rebuilt from the ground up, exhaust system completely unique.”
My breath hitched. “Who owns it?”
Aris looked at her notes. “The registration is old, last updated almost fifteen years ago. It belongs to a man named Salvatore DeLuca. Known on some forums as ‘Sal the Wrench.'”
Sal “The Wrench” DeLuca. The name hit me like a physical blow. He was an old-school mob mechanic, a master with engines and a ghost with his personal life. He’d done work for me years ago, a few discreet modifications to vehicles. He had vanished completely from the syndicate’s radar almost a year ago, right after my crash. Everyone had assumed he’d simply retired to a quiet life somewhere.
“Where is he now?” I demanded, my voice raw.
Aris looked at me, a flicker of concern in her eyes. “The last known address on the registration is an old boatyard, an abandoned harbor garage in Indiana. Looks like he went off-grid.”
The hum of the engine played on, no longer just a sound, but a direct link to the man who could either prove or damn me. Sal. The one man who could confirm Julian’s whispered order.
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