November 15, 1933
Charlotte, North Carolina

Charles “Ice” Connors braced against the car door as their stolen vehicle darted in front of the mail truck before slamming to a stop on the quiet street. In an instant, Ice and the other three members of the crew surrounded the truck. The noonday sun glared down like a spotlight, the trees stood motionless, and the mail driver raised his hands as Dutch shoved a Tommy gun into the man’s face.

Satisfied the driver was incapacitated, Ice wiped sweat from his temple. November weather was not meant to be this mild. He circled to the back of the truck, bolt cutter in hand. A quick snap and they were in.

Isaac Costner slapped Ice on the back. “Boss will be happy.”

Ice held back his grin and swung himself up into the truck. They hadn’t gotten away with the robbery yet.

Inside the truck, bags of money from the Charlotte Federal Reserve waited for them. Ice tossed a bag down to each of his companions, then scouted the truck, searching for a singular item. Owl, Dutch, and Costner returned and Ice tossed down another load to each, per Roger “The Terrible” Touhy’s orders. They disappeared around the side of the truck with their loot as Ice spotted the small rectangular box he’d been handsomely paid to retrieve.

Ice waited until the three men took the last of their score to the car—if any of them knew he had an agenda other than stealing the money their boss needed to beat Capone’s setup, Ice’s body would be left beside the driver’s, a bullet hole in his head. But the money! The money made this particular gem worth the risk. He glanced over his shoulder one last time before he snatched the small box and checked the address on the package against the one he’d been given, then slipped the package into his coat pocket.

“Ice, let’s go!” Dutch hollered.

Ice grabbed the last bag filled with cash and bank notes, slinging it over his shoulder and jumped to the ground. The box bumped against his thigh, and he resisted drawing attention to it by holding it still. Then he squeezed into the car, the violin case holding the Tommy gun jamming the box corner into his leg and threatening to betray its presence with an unwelcome bump.

Outside of Charlotte, they switched to a clean vehicle, then began the long drive back to Chicago. Twisting mountain roads gave way to the interminably straight drive through Indiana before they finally reached the smog-caked factories of Gary and Chicago. Dutch pulled into a warehouse dock on the west side as dusk fell the day after their successful robbery.

Touhy’s men unloaded the car as Owl, Dutch, Costner, and Ice received their payment. Then slipped into the night, leaving the car for the others to dispense with. All had gone according to plan, so Touhy should go free despite Capone and his underhanded dealings. Not that Ice cared either way. Not with the score burning a hole in his pocket.

Leaving the drop, Ice slipped around the corner of a building as rundown as the citizens of this windy city. Garbage filled the alley, accosting his nose and warning the less determined to steer clear. Ice backed into the shadows before he pulled the package from his pocket. A cold wind whistled past him, and he tucked up the collar of his coat, then flipped open his knife.

He slit the package he’d carried from Charlotte. Inside was another box—this one unadorned wood. It slipped into his palm. Ice discarded the original packaging and lifted the lid. Shining back at him was a single, clear diamond set in a gold ring. It sparkled in the fading sunlight, as out of place in the dingy alley as a snow-capped mountain in the desert. Ice ran his finger over the gem. A full carat, he’d been told. For just an instant, he considered dropping it into his pocket and disappearing.

“Do you have it?” A voice stopped him.

Ice turned slowly, fisting the ring. He knew the man, a freelancer who preferred to work for the highest bidder, which currently meant Capone had him doing guard duty at one of his churches. A cushy job. So why was he here?

“The package.” The man stepped closer. “He sent me.”

He? Ice squinted. The man who’d hired him would want this item returned personally, not through a mercenary. The newcomer’s eyes darted to Ice’s hand, a gleam betraying that he knew exactly what Ice had been thinking. Before Ice could react, the man raised a hand, and two men materialized behind him, Tommy guns firing.

Ice had no escape. He was dead.