DUFFLE BAG

They never told Vinny Caruso what was in the bag. They never had to. In Chicago, 1927, a city where blood ran between the bricks and the alleys whispered names of the dead, a man learned to stop asking questions. Especially a man like Vinny-low-rank, quick feet, quicker mouth, and just enough sense to know when to shut it. He sat behind the wheel of a battered Ford Model A coupe, its engine ticking down in the cold night. The windshield was streaked with mist and city grime. Streetlamps flickered overhead, their glow fractured by the rain.

And next to him, nestled on the passenger seat, was the duffle bag. Black leather. Heavy. Silent. Vinny hadn't opened it. Not yet. But it was too quiet. Too heavy. He glanced at the bag like it might blink back at him. The kind of weight it held... it wasn't liquor. And it sure as hell wasn't money. --- The job had come earlier that evening, through Frankie Moretti. It always came through Frankie. The Blue Sable, the Outfit's preferred jazz joint on the South Side, was a thick cloud of cigar smoke, perfume, and off-key piano when Vinny showed up. The booths were full of big mouths and loud women, and the backroom was sealed like a vault. Frankie waved him in like a priest welcoming a sinner to confession. "You're up, Vin," Frankie said without looking up from his drink. His suit was cream-colored, silk, sharp. His slicked-back hair shone like a mirror in the lamplight. "Got a package. Kinzie Street. You don't stop. You don't peek. You drop it and go." Vinny leaned against the wall. "What's the rush?" Frankie's eyes flicked up. "Don't ask." That was code. Not for "shut up," but for: *If you value your teeth, don't push it.* Vinny nodded. "Warehouse job?" Frankie tapped ash into a crystal tray. "Warehouse. Back entrance. No detours." Then he reached under the table and pulled up the duffle. Vinny grabbed it. His fingers strained. The weight almost took him off balance. He didn't say anything. Just looked at Frankie, one brow raised. "Don't worry about it," Frankie said, his voice flat. "And don't make me regret trusting you." That was the worst part. That word. *Trust.* Trust in Chicago was just a blade you hadn't seen yet. --- Back in the car, the streets passed him in watery streaks. The city hummed and growled, engines coughing in the alleys, sirens wailing in the distance, jazz bleeding from the windows of a top-floor flophouse. Vinny didn't like the silence inside the car. He lit a cigarette, flame shaking slightly. There were no cops behind him. No headlights tailing. Just the city, indifferent and alive. Still, his stomach felt like concrete. He looked at the bag again. Don't ask. Don't look. Don't know. But knowing was already scratching under his skin. --- At a red light, he made the mistake. He unzipped it. Just an inch. Just to breathe. The smell hit first. Blood and something else-raw meat, sweat, metal. He saw cloth. Canvas maybe. Dark. Soaked. He zipped it back fast. Hand shaking. Jesus. Whatever it was-it wasn't cargo. It was a person. Or *part* of one. --- He drove faster after that. Not wild, but firm. Every turn like it might be his last. Every corner like a question he didn't want answered. Kinzie Street. Ten minutes away. But now it felt like he was driving toward his own grave. --- Vinny hadn't always run for the Outfit. Once, he'd shined shoes outside a barber shop on Taylor Street. Then he held doors at nightclubs. Then he ran whiskey. By the time he was twenty, he'd seen more bodies dropped in alleys than saints in a church. But he never dealt with bodies directly. Until now. The warehouse was a stone carcass on the river's edge. Three stories of rotting windows and rusted beams. A sign half-torn off read "Miller & Co." He parked in the lot out back, engine still running. The rain had stopped, but the air clung wet against his skin. He didn't move. The bag sat still. Like it was waiting. --- When he finally stepped out, he could hear his own heartbeat. He walked to the back entrance-steel door, no handle. He knocked once. Then twice, hard. It creaked open. Inside, dark. Bare lightbulbs swung from the rafters. Shadows stretched long like claws across the concrete. "Caruso?" a voice asked. He nodded. Two men stepped into view. One was Clyde Nicosi-short, square, and deadly. The other, a stranger, tall with gloves and a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his eyes. "You got it?" Clyde asked. Vinny held out the bag. The stranger took it. Unzipped it. Peeked inside. No reaction. Just a nod. Then, silence. Until Clyde said, "You peeked." It wasn't a question. Vinny didn't answer. The stranger tilted his head. "You opened it, didn't you?" Vinny hesitated. Then: "Yeah. A little." Clyde sighed. The stranger spoke again. His voice was soft, but it cut through the air. "Smart men don't look. Curious men end up dead." Vinny swallowed. "I didn't *see* anything," he lied. "Doesn't matter," the stranger said. "Now you're part of it." "Part of *what*?" They didn't answer. Instead, Clyde stepped forward and handed Vinny an envelope. "Take this," he said. Vinny looked at it. Thick. Cash, maybe. "Go home," the stranger said. "Get some sleep. You'll be hearing from us." Vinny's hands shook as he took the envelope. The bag disappeared into the dark behind them. So did the two men. He walked back to the car, mind racing. Cash meant silence. But silence meant complicity. --- Back in the Ford, he sat a long time before turning the key. The city hadn't changed. Still loud. Still glowing. Still rotting from the inside out. But Vinny had changed. He'd touched something heavy tonight. Not just the bag. A line had been crossed. And in this business, you only crossed it once. --- That night, in his cold one-room apartment above a butcher shop, Vinny didn't sleep. He counted the money. Enough to keep him quiet. Maybe even keep him loyal. But the smell from the bag lingered in his nose. Blood and something else. Maybe it was fear. Or guilt. Or the start of something bigger. --- Because in Chicago, during Prohibition, nobody ran free. You either carried the bag... ...or ended up inside it.