Chapter 10
Vittorio let the phone ring three times. He savored the tension, letting the silence stretch before he reached out with a steady, calloused hand and lifted the receiver.
He didn't speak. He just held the plastic to his ear, listening to the heavy, ragged breathing on the other end of the line.
"You always were too proud for your own good, Vittorio," Donatella’s voice rasped through the speaker. The cold, aristocratic sneer was gone, replaced by a raw, guttural hatred. Her American accent was clipped, the swelling in her cheek clearly altering her speech.
"You have one hour to leave the city, Mother," Vittorio replied, his voice a low, terrifying hum. "If you are still inside the county lines when the sun goes down, I will not be as forgiving as I was in the hallway."
A harsh, bitter laugh barked through the phone. "Forgiving? You struck your own mother. You disgraced the bloodline for a worthless little girl. You think you’ve won because you sit in the big house?"
"I know I've won because you are standing at a payphone, and I am standing in my study," Vittorio said coldly.
"Enjoy the study while it lasts," Donatella hissed. "You think I didn't plan for your stubbornness? You think I didn't foresee the day you might turn on me? I built the alliances that keep you breathing, Vittorio. And I can tear them down."
"If you're calling to tell me you've sold the northern territory to the Valenti family, you're wasting your dime," Vittorio said, checking his gold wristwatch. "My men are already en route to their warehouses. By midnight, there won't be a Valenti left to sign your treaty."
There was a pause on the line. For a fraction of a second, Vittorio thought he heard a flicker of hesitation. But when Donatella spoke again, the sheer malice in her voice made the hairs on his arms stand up.
"I didn't call the Valentis, you arrogant fool," Donatella whispered. "The Valentis are street thugs. I called Chicago."
Vittorio’s jaw locked. Every muscle in his broad frame tightened. The Chicago syndicate wasn't just a rival family; they were a massive, national organization. They didn't fight turf wars; they waged corporate annihilation. Bringing Chicago into their city was a nuclear option. It meant Donatella was willing to scorch the earth and hand over the entire Mancini empire to outsiders, just to see him dead.
"Rocco is meeting with their emissaries right now," Donatella continued, her voice dripping with venomous triumph. "We offered them the ports, the supply lines, and the political judges. All they asked for in return was your head on a platter. They are sending a strike team tonight, Vittorio. They are coming for you. And they are coming for the girl."
Vittorio didn't blink. He looked out the reinforced window, watching the last sliver of the sun disappear below the horizon, plunging the estate into deep, encroaching twilight.
"Let them come," Vittorio said softly, his voice devoid of all fear. "I have enough ammunition in the basement to bury Chicago. And when I'm done with them, I'm coming to find you."
He slammed the receiver down, cutting the connection with a sharp, violent crack.
Vittorio turned to Marcus. The bodyguard was already pulling a heavy assault rifle from the hidden armory behind the bookshelf, his face grim.
May you like
"Lock down the estate," Vittorio commanded, rolling his shoulders, the adrenaline pumping pure fire through his veins. "Kill the lights. Nobody gets past the gates alive."
The war had begun.
