King & Moretti Partners

Chapter Three

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sonny closed the front door and flicked the wall switch that turned the lights on in her small townhouse. It happened to be one of three safe houses she kept in Chicago. Its meager accommodations consisted of a empty living room, a small bedroom with a full sized bed, a sparse kitchen with a small refrigerator, oven and a microwave. There were some non perishable provisions, toiletries and a few clothes. The basement was where she kept her real supplies, guns, ammunition, and her other tools of the trade. In the attached garage was a brand new Ducati Supersport motorcycle, gassed up and ready to go.

She sat on the bed and opened her go bag, inside she had another change of clothes, an unassuming t-shirt and a pair of jeans. There were two sets of fake IDs and ten prepaid Visa cards each carrying a balance of two hundred and fifty dollars. She had one burner phone that she could use and then dispose of but there was really no one she could call anyway. Finally she removed the lockbox from the bag and placed it gently, almost reverently, on her bed.

Sonny Moretti lifted her five foot ten inch frame from the bed and headed to the bathroom. She turned the shower on and stripped down, placing the clothes she had worn on the tiled floor to burn later. Using her long tan fingers she tested the water and stepped inside the glass enclosed shower. Hot water and soap streamed down and dripped off tight and muscled limbs. She washed her long black hair and closed her eyes, allowing the fragrant shampoo to ease some of the tension that was coiled inside her. She knew the danger she was in, there were most likely over a hundred men in the city looking to kill her. She was not going to run from them however. Had she wanted to, she could have slipped away and then vanish without a trace. She could hide in any number of countries around the world and never be heard from again.

Sonny stepped out of the shower and dried herself off, she brushed her raven hair and went back to the bed. She laid down and picked up the lockbox again and opened it. She removed a small .38 pistol and an old photograph, the only two items inside the simple metal box. For a moment she held them both to her chest and closed her eyes, relief flooding through her that they were still in her possession. The photograph was old and the paper slightly frayed on the corners but the image was still clear. It was a picture of a raven haired nine year old girl with a tall man in his forties. They sat near a shimmering river on vividly green grass, smiling in the sun during a spontaneous fishing trip. She could still remember the smell of the grass and the sound of the water. She could recall the feeling of the hot sun on her arms and the wet scales of the fish. The sound of her father's laughter and his deep voice when he showed her how to bait a hook. Sonny and her father shared the same slim face and high cheekbones. He was a slim man, six feet and four inches tall and he was a giant to her. A gentle giant, he was always soft spoken and fair to her. Anthony Moretti was not a pushover, he could be a strict disciplinarian when he needed to be, but he was always patient with his only child, his baby girl who he always called 'Sonny'.

Sonny's mother had died while she was giving birth, forcing her father to raise her all by himself. Anthony did the best he could but he really was not built to raise a daughter. He did not know what dresses to buy or how to braid his daughter's long hair. But that did not stop him from showering his daughter with all the love and attention he could. Anthony Moretti was a hitman, he lived in a violent world and contributed to it with violence of his own. The only thing that mattered to him was his daughter, so he trained Sonny to be able to defend herself as soon as she had taken her first steps. Sonny fired a gun for the first time when she was seven. He held her little hands to the weapon and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was the loudest noise she had ever heard in her life, it had frightened her and she had cried. Her father had held her and dried her tears but when she was calm again he made her shoot it over and over again until all the bullets were fired. He explained to her afterwards that the gun itself was only a tool, like a drill or a jackhammer. It might make noise or perhaps even kill you if you did not know how to use it properly, but if you practiced with it and understood its power you did not need to fear it. It could be like a paintbrush if you mastered it, if you respected it then you could become an artist with it.