Chapter 10
The night air was crisp and cool as Roman stepped out of the heavy front doors of his estate. The bright exterior security lights illuminated the fleet of black, armored SUVs idling in the circular driveway. Dozens of heavily armed men, all white American enforcers loyal to the Valenti bloodline, stood waiting in silence. The cinematic, natural lighting of the estate’s facade provided a dramatic backdrop to the gathering army.
Marcus stepped forward, handing Roman a fresh, tailored suit jacket to replace the one he had discarded in the dining room.
"The teams are in position, Boss," Marcus reported, his face grim. "We located Leo. He’s fortified inside the downtown nightclub. He has about thirty men with him. They look like Chicago hitters."
Roman slipped his arms into the tailored jacket, adjusting his cuffs so his refined, sharp hand tattoos were visible. He buttoned the jacket, leaving his shirt collar open.
"Thirty men," Roman said slowly, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "That is an insult. He should have brought three hundred."
"We're ready to breach on your command," Marcus said, opening the rear door of the lead SUV.
Roman paused before stepping into the vehicle. He looked back at the sprawling, magnificent estate he had built. He thought of his son, finally sleeping in a warm bed, safe from the monsters who had lived under his own roof. The fury inside him was no longer a burning, chaotic fire; it was a focused, freezing laser.
"Marcus," Roman said.
"Yes, Boss?"
"When we hit the club," Roman instructed, his eyes locking onto his capo, "there are to be no survivors. Anyone holding a weapon dies. Anyone running dies. Leo is the only one who breathes long enough to answer my questions."
"Understood, Roman," Marcus nodded, a chilling smile touching his lips.
Roman climbed into the back of the SUV. The heavy, armored door slammed shut with a definitive, metallic thud. The convoy of black vehicles accelerated down the long, winding driveway, their headlights cutting through the darkness like predatory eyes.
As they sped toward the city, Roman’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, looking at the glowing screen. It was an unknown number, blocked and encrypted.
He swiped to answer, holding the phone to his ear without speaking.
"Roman," a raspy, older voice crackled through the speaker. It was a voice he recognized instantly—Don Carmine, the head of the Chicago Commission.
"Carmine," Roman replied, his voice dead calm.
"I hear you threw your mother out on the street tonight," Carmine said, his tone thick with mock sympathy. "That’s a tragic way to treat family, Roman. It makes a man look unstable. The Commission is very concerned about your leadership."
"The Commission. Should be concerned. About its own survival," Roman whispered, his volume dropping to a lethal level.
"You're surrounded, kid," Carmine laughed coldly. "Leo has the city locked down. Your mother handed us the security codes for your shipping lines. You have nothing left."
"I have my son," Roman stated, his eyes narrowing as the bright neon lights of the downtown district began to reflect off the SUV’s tinted windows. "And I have an army that is currently parking outside Leo’s front door. By sunrise, Carmine, I will own your shipping lines. And I will own your city."
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"You're a dead man, Roman," Carmine threatened before the line went dead.
Roman lowered the phone, a cold, dangerous smile spreading across his movie-star handsome face. The car slowed to a halt outside the heavily fortified nightclub. Roman stepped out into the bright, flashing streetlights, racking the slide of his weapon. The war for the Valenti empire had begun.
