Chapter 16
1724 Words
The sun had dipped low in the sky, painting Chicago in hues of gold and ash. The streets quieted in the aftermath of the confrontation, leaving behind tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
DJ stood still on the corner, watching the direction Wyatt’s car disappeared into. His jaw was tight, his fists unclenching slowly at his sides. He could still feel the heat of rage in his blood — not for the threats or the insults, but for how Wyatt had touched her.
Aurelia.
He turned.
She was still there, standing under the amber wash of a streetlamp, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was trying to hold herself together. Her eyes searched his face. Not frightened. Not confused.
Just… aching.
DJ nodded his head down the alley beside a brick bookstore, silent and dim. She followed without a word, her heels clicking quietly on the concrete.
They stepped into the privacy of shadow. DJ leaned back against the wall, arms folded. Aurelia faced him, just a foot away, wringing her fingers together in front of her.
Neither spoke for a beat.
Then—
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Aurelia whispered, her voice fragile, like it would shatter if she spoke too loud.
DJ looked at her, then down at his shoes. “Yeah… I figured.”
She stepped closer. “You left me, DJ. You promised you’d come back.”
His eyes closed for a second — not in guilt, but in pain. “I know.”
“I waited. I waited so damn long,” she said, her voice cracking, brows pulling together. “And then… nothing. Not even a letter.”
“I couldn’t.” His voice was low, heavy. “Not with the life I was building. I didn’t want to drag you into it. You didn’t belong in that world.”
“I didn’t care about the world,” she shot back. “I cared about you. And it broke me when you never came.”
Silence again. DJ didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
“Do you know what it was like?” she continued, voice shaking. “Every storm that rolled in, I’d sit by the window, praying you’d show up, soaking wet, just like when we were kids. I used to sleep with a packed bag by the front door for months.”
DJ looked up now — really looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her lashes wet. Her hair, curled softly, glowed under the dim light. Her red dress clung to her curves, hugging her in ways he wasn’t prepared to handle. She had grown — not just in body, but in spirit. Stronger. Wilder. Still the soft-hearted girl who read to him and hold him during thunderstorms… but something more now. A fire.
“I’m sorry,” DJ finally said, his voice hoarse. “I never stopped thinking about you. Not for a day.”
Her expression cracked.
“Then why are you here now?” she asked, quieter this time.
He hesitated, then took a small step closer.
“I’m here for business.” His eyes searched hers. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. I didn’t want to. Because I knew once I did…”
She held her breath.
“I wouldn’t be able to stay away.”
Her lips parted.
DJ reached out slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her cheek. The air between them turned molten, heavy with history, longing, and a tension that had been waiting nine years to break.
“I missed you, Lia.”
Aurelia's chest rose and fell, eyes never leaving his.
“I missed you too, DJ.”
And for a brief second, the weight of the world disappeared. There were no Mafia wars, no racist tyrants, no wounds too deep to touch.
Just a boy and a girl, who once found safety under the covers during thunderstorms.
DJ pulled her gently into his chest, arms wrapping around her like it was the only place she belonged. Aurelia didn’t resist — she melted into him, burying her face in his chest, breathing in the scent of home.
He kissed the top of her head, eyes closed.
The days that followed moved like a slow-burning fire — quiet from the outside, but burning hot underneath.
DJ and his crew were methodical. Surgical.
Every morning started with coffee at the Verona compound and a briefing around the kitchen table. DJ sat at the head like he owned it now — files spread out, cigarette tucked behind his ear, eyes sharp with strategy. One by one, Wyatt’s operations started to bleed.
They torched a gambling house off West Monroe.
They intercepted a truck full of smuggled liquor meant for one of Wyatt’s all-white clubs — took the crates and delivered them to the colored joints for free.
They turned a crooked payroll guy — the man spilled everything.
Piece by piece, Wyatt Cane’s empire cracked.
And in between that—when DJ wasn’t burning Wyatt’s world to the ground—he was rediscovering the girl who once taught him to read.
It started with a walk along the lake.
Just DJ and Aurelia, side by side, no bodyguards or tension between them. The late afternoon sun danced on the water. Her hand brushed against his once… then again… until finally, she laced her fingers with his.
“You still bite your cheek when you’re thinking,” she said softly.
DJ smirked. “Didn’t realize I still did.”
She smiled at him — that real one, the one that twisted something in his chest. “Some things don’t change.”
The next day, a picnic in the park.
Aurelia laid out a small blanket and unpacked a modest lunch Maybelle had helped her make — cucumber sandwiches, some sweet tea, and a slice of cherry pie.
DJ laid on his side in his dark slacks and suspenders, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked so much bigger now, so much broader — but when he bit into the sandwich and made a face, she burst out laughing.
“What?” he asked, chewing.
“You still hate cucumbers?” she giggled.
He gave a dramatic groan. “This tastes like disappointment.”
They laughed. For a while, they just talked.
About Letty and how much Aurelia missed her.
About New York — the chaos, the power, the pressure.
About childhood — the time they got caught stealing peaches from Mr. Kowalski’s garden.
DJ hesitated at one point, looking down at his hands.
“I’ve done things, Lia,” he said quietly. “Bad things.”
She reached out and laid her hand on his.
“I know. But I know your heart too.”
On a Friday night, they went to the movies.
Aurelia wore a dark green silk dress that made DJ forget how to breathe for a second. He walked beside her through the city like it was still theirs. Inside the theater, they shared a bag of popcorn, hands brushing in the dark, the flicker of old film casting shadows on their faces.
When the lights came up, DJ was still watching her.
“You always get more beautiful,” he murmured.
She looked up at him, her lashes fluttering. “And you’re still smooth.”
He kissed her that night. Just once. On the steps of her house.
It wasn’t rough or rushed. It was soft. Familiar. Like the kiss nine years ago never ended—just picked up where it left off.
---
Meanwhile, Wyatt boiled like a teapot ready to blow.
Three warehouses gone. Two shipments hijacked. A dozen of his boys in the hospital and one more flipped to DJ’s side.
His grip on the city was slipping.
DJ didn’t gloat. He didn’t posture.
He just moved in silence… with a smile in his eyes every time Aurelia’s name crossed his mind.
He was a devil in the streets.
But with her — he felt human again.
Wyatt Cane stood by the window of his office, the skyline of Chicago stretching out before him like prey. His jaw ticked, thumb tapping furiously against the whiskey tumbler in his hand.
“She was with him?” he repeated, voice low.
The man standing behind him—one of his lieutenants—nodded nervously. “Y-yeah, boss. We saw ‘em. Walkin’ in the park. Then at the movie house. And the speakeasy too. All week. He, um... kissed her.”
Wyatt didn’t move at first. Just stared out the window, that twitch in his jaw growing sharper.
“She’s mine,” he said finally, like it was a fact carved in stone. “She just don’t know it yet.”
The room fell silent.
Wyatt turned slowly, set his drink down, and walked toward the man. “Do you know what it’s like to see somethin’ perfect, somethin’ clean, and know it was made just for you?”
The man didn’t answer.
Wyatt got in his face.
“And then to see some fuckin’ gutter-born mongrel put his filthy hands on it?”
The man swallowed. “What… what should we do?”
Wyatt gave a crooked grin, but it didn’t touch his eyes.
“We send a message.”
That night, DJ returned to the compound after another hit on one of Wyatt’s supply caches.
As he stepped into his room, the air changed.
There was something on his pillow.
A photograph.
It was Aurelia.
From earlier that day. She was smiling, seated on a bench downtown. The angle made it clear — someone had been watching her. Close.
Pinned to the photo was a single white lily.
And a note, scrawled in dark, jagged ink:
“Touch her again and I’ll paint the sidewalk with her smile.”
DJ’s jaw clenched.
His fingers crushed the photo in his fist.
Aron walked in and noticed the shift in the air. “What is it?”
DJ turned his back, voice low and cold. “Wyatt.”
Aron saw the crushed photo in DJ’s hand and the tension in his shoulders. “He made it personal?”
DJ slowly turned back around, eyes darker than the room. “He just signed his fuckin’ death warrant.”
- Writer
