Chapter 9
Valentina turned to Mrs. Gable, who stood waiting in the corner of the library.
"Take Lily down to the reinforced vault beneath the wine cellar," Valentina instructed calmly. "Lock the secondary blast door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone other than me or Dante. If the power cuts, switch to manual ventilation."
"On my life, Donna Valentina," the elderly housekeeper whispered, gently scooping Lily into her arms.
Lily waved her small hand toward her mother as they moved toward the hidden bookcase door. "Bye-bye, Mommy! Don't let the loud men break the windows!"
"Nobody is breaking our windows, my love," Valentina smiled softly.
The moment the bookcase clicked shut, sealing the vault, the warmth vanished from the room.
Valentina walked over to the mahogany display case behind her desk. She entered a six-digit code on the digital keypad. The tempered glass slid open with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Inside rested an array of custom firearms—sleek, matte-black weapons maintained with surgical perfection.
She reached inside and withdrew a customized Colt 1911 with mother-of-pearl grips, checking the slide with a single, practiced snap of her wrist. She racked a round into the chamber and slipped the weapon into the concealed holster beneath her tailored suit jacket.
She walked out of the library, marching down the grand marble hallway with Dante at her flank.
"What is the status of the front gates?" Valentina asked as they reached the grand foyer.
"The heavy iron gates are unlocked, Boss," Dante reported, matching her brisk stride. "Just as you ordered. We pulled our sentries back into the tree line. To Falco’s advance scouts, the estate looks completely deserted."
"And our snipers?"
"Six marksmen positioned on the upper balustrades and the carriage house roof," Dante answered. "Equipped with armor-piercing rounds and thermal optics. The crossfire is zeroed on the circular driveway."
"Good," Valentina said, pushing open the heavy oak double doors and stepping out onto the sunlit stone portico.
The midsummer heat was intense now, the air shimmering above the black asphalt of the private driveway. Outside, the world was deceptively peaceful—birds singing in the ancient oaks, the gentle whisper of the wind through the pines.
At exactly two-twenty-eight, the low, synchronized rumble of four heavy V8 engines echoed from the bottom of the mountain road.
Four black armored Suburbans crested the private drive, moving at high speed, tires crunching aggressively over the white gravel as they rounded the circular fountain. They came to a sudden, coordinated halt fifty feet from the grand limestone steps, boxing in the front entrance in a tight tactical diamond.
The doors flew open simultaneously.
Sixteen men in black tactical windbreakers and ballistic vests spilled out onto the gravel, raising suppressed submachine guns to their shoulders, their boots fanning out across the driveway.
From the passenger side of the lead vehicle stepped Paulie Vitucci.
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At forty-five, Chicago’s most notorious enforcer was broad-shouldered, thick-necked, wearing an expensive leather jacket and dark sunglasses, a heavy scar slicing through his left eyebrow. He held a customized assault carbine loosely in his right hand, an arrogant, predatory smirk spreading across his face as he looked up at the quiet mansion.
"Donna Carbone!" Vitucci’s raspy voice boomed across the courtyard. "I hope we aren't interrupting your lunch! Gerald forgot to text us, so we thought we'd come up the hill and collect our property in person!"
