Protection Money From the Wrong Man, Your Don

This bottle girl, new to the club, always demanded I serve her. And only me.

She was good for business, so I let it slide.

Then, one weekend, two in the morning. I’m in bed in the penthouse. She calls, barking orders at me.

“I’m in the ‘Paradise’ suite. Get up here with a bottle and get me right.”

I almost laughed. The girl was an idiot.

“It’s 2 AM. Are you ordering me around? I’m not your bodyguard or your dealer.”

She sneered, her voice dripping with arrogance.

“My cousin is the club manager. You should feel honored to serve me. By the way, your ‘protection fee’ is late this month. Get your ass over here now, or I’ll have my cousin dump you in the Chicago River.”

Oh.

She had no idea. The docks along the Chicago River… they’re mine. All of them.

Woken up in the middle of the night by a dead girl walking. She had no idea she was threatening the Don who owned every dock on the Chicago River.

“Nico, are you fucking deaf? I said bring two bottles of Ace of Spades. Now!”

On the other end of the line, Bianca’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

I leaned back against the headboard in the penthouse, phone in hand, a cold smirk on my face.

“Are you giving me an order?”

“What do you think?” she scoffed. “Nico, don’t push your luck. You haven’t paid your protection money this month. You think my cousin can’t have you feeding the fishes by sunrise?”

The bottom of the Chicago River.

I looked out the window at the river, a silver ribbon in the dark. Three years ago, every dock along that water became property of the Grimaldi family.

She was threatening to dump me in my own river.

“It’s 2:17 AM, Bianca,” I said slowly. “I’m going to sleep.”

“You wouldn’t da—”

I tossed the phone aside. Didn’t hang up. Just let her curses echo in the empty suite.

My mind flashed back to a month ago.

I’d just come up from the wine cellar three floors down, smelling of mildew and cigars.

The elevator doors opened, and a young woman in a Chanel suit stepped in, pinching her nose.

She recoiled.

In the club, everyone steps aside for me. Out of respect. Or fear. So I thought nothing of it.

The next night, I had my Dodge parked by the back door, about to start the engine.

The passenger door was pulled open.

She slid in, crossed her legs, and didn't even give me a glance.

“Fifth and Oakley. It’s on your way.”

I froze for a second.

As the man who controlled half of Chicago’s underworld, I’ve heard every kind of request, plea, and beg.

But no one had ever dared to order me.

I could have snapped her neck right there. But I didn’t.

She was a newbie who didn’t know the rules. A nobody. I couldn’t be bothered.

Besides, it