Chapter 10
The silence that returned to the D’Angelo estate was vast, cold, and absolute.
Outside on the snow-covered terrace, four bodies lay motionless beneath the falling flakes, their blood freezing into dark crimson ribbons against the white stone. Inside the dining gallery, the smell of cordite and burnt powder hung thick in the air, mixing with the scent of pine needles from the fallen Christmas decorations.
Salvatore emerged from the service corridor, his weapon lowered, his suit spotless. Behind him, two guards secured the perimeter, while a third carried Clara wrapped safely in a down comforter.
The little girl was quiet, her blue eyes wide as she looked at the shattered room, but when she saw Roman standing in the center of the gallery, her face softened.
"Daddy," she called out, her voice tiny and clear in the ruin.
Roman lowered his weapon, clicking the manual safety back into place. He tucked the Kimber into his waistband, wiped his hands on a clean napkin offered by Vincent, and walked over to take his daughter into his arms.
Clara buried her face into his neck, her small hands clutching the collar of his blood-specked dress shirt. "Did the loud noises stop?"
"Yes, baby," Roman whispered, his lips brushing her hair with infinite tenderness, his tattooed throat softening against her cheek. "The loud noises are finished. Daddy took care of them."
He turned back toward the dark gallery, looking at the stone stairs leading down to the cellar.
"Salvatore," Roman said.
"Boss."
"Clear the lawn. Put the mercenaries in the incinerator behind the garage. And bring Marcus and Katherine up to the courtyard."
"Are we putting them in the ground tonight?" Salvatore asked, his voice entirely devoid of judgment.
"No," Roman said, his dark eyes glittering with a lethal, calculating intelligence that looked far beyond the walls of the estate. "Death is too simple. We leave them on the steps of the federal building in Newark at dawn, along with the aconite decanter and a full transcript of their offshore accounts. Let Chicago watch their loyal partners rot in a federal penitentiary for the next thirty years."
Vincent stepped forward, holding a vibrating, black tactical satellite phone recovered from the dead strike leader on the floor.
"Don Roman," Vincent said, extending the glowing screen. "Incoming encrypted transmission. It’s bouncing from an offshore server."
Roman adjusted Clara in his left arm, keeping her face shielded from the phone, and took the device with his right hand. He swiped the screen, bringing the receiver to his ear.
"Speak," Roman commanded.
A low, aristocratic voice answered—smooth, cultured, and chillingly familiar, completely unbothered by the gunfire that had just ceased.
"Merry Christmas, nephew," the voice murmured across the line.
Roman froze. The voice did not belong to Chicago. It did not belong to any rival syndicate on the eastern seaboard.
It was a voice Roman had not heard since he was twelve years old—the voice of his uncle Dominic, the brother his father had supposedly executed in the harbor seventeen years ago.
"You're dead, Dominic," Roman said, his voice dropping into pure, frozen granite.
A soft, melodic chuckle drifted through the speaker, accompanied by the clink of ice in a crystal glass.
"A dead man who still controls the transit routes through Montreal, Roman," Dominic whispered, his tone laced with razor-sharp amusement. "Katherine and Marcus were merely an audition. A test to see if the boy who took my brother’s seat still had his father's teeth."
The line paused, the silence stretching across the encrypted satellite link like an uncoiling garrote wire.
"You passed the test, Roman," Dominic purred. "Keep your little girl close tonight. Because when the spring thaw comes to the docks... I'm coming home to take my chair."
The call terminated with a dull, digital click.
May you like
Roman lowered the phone, his grip tightening until the glass screen cracked beneath his signet ring.
He stood alone amidst the shattered crystal, the ruined grandfather clock, and the scattered Christmas crackers, holding his sleeping daughter tight against his chest, staring out into the dark, endless winter storm where an entirely new war was waiting to be fought.
