Chapter 10
Alessia grabbed the radio from her hip, her thumb pressing the transmission button with practiced efficiency. "Report. Did Garrett reach the gate?"
"He reached the gate, Boss," the sniper’s voice crackled through the speaker, tight with urgency. "But he didn't crawl out alone. Three black SUVs just pulled up to the perimeter. Unmarked. Heavy armor."
Alessia’s eyes narrowed. "Are they Falcone vehicles? Did they bypass the southern trap?"
"Negative, Boss," the sniper replied. "These aren't local plates. They have federal government tags. The lead vehicle just deployed a tactical team. They're heavily armed, but they aren't trying to breach the gate. They just threw Garrett into the back of a van."
Miriam placed a hand on Alessia’s arm, her rosy face paling slightly. "Federal agents? Why would the FBI extract a disgraced mob husband?"
Alessia’s mind raced, connecting the fragmented pieces of the evening’s betrayal. The arrogance of the Lawsons. The sudden influx of cash. The brazen attempt to provoke her into a public assault.
"They aren't FBI," Alessia said, her voice dropping into a chilling, hollow whisper. "The FBI doesn't operate in unmarked black armor during a syndicate war."
She keyed the radio again. "Sniper One, can you get a visual on the commanding officer of that convoy? Give me a description."
Static hissed for a long moment before the sniper responded. "I have him in my optics, Boss. Tall, white male. Wearing a tailored trench coat. He’s standing by the gate, looking up at the house. Sir... he’s holding up a piece of paper toward the camera."
"What does it say?" Alessia demanded.
"It’s not a word, Boss. It’s a symbol," the sniper said, his voice laced with confusion. "It looks like a broken crown."
The air in the ballroom seemed to freeze. The bright, vivid colors of the opulent space suddenly felt like the walls of a gilded cage.
Miriam gasped, clutching the pearls at her neck. "The broken crown? Alessia... that’s the syndicate mark of the Chicago outfit. They haven't operated on the East Coast in twenty years."
"Garrett didn't just sell us to the Falcones," Alessia realized, the magnitude of the conspiracy finally taking shape. "The Falcones were a distraction. A local skirmish to keep our security busy while the real players moved in."
"He sold us to the Midwest commission," Miriam whispered, terror creeping into her elegant voice.
Alessia stood tall, her posture radiating an unbroken, terrifying resolve. She had survived the betrayal of her husband. She had protected her mother. She had locked down her estate. But the game had just expanded far beyond the borders of her city.
She lifted the radio to her lips.
"Vincent," Alessia commanded, her voice ringing with the absolute authority of a warlord preparing for a siege.
"Yes, Boss. We have the Falcones trapped in the tunnel. Awaiting orders," Vincent replied instantly.
"Execute them all," Alessia ordered coldly. "And prepare the armory. Chicago just declared war."
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She turned away from the window, the heavy diamond earrings catching the light of the chandeliers one last time as she walked toward the grand staircase, ready to defend her empire.
The night was far from over.
