Chapter 10
The morning sun rose over Chicago, bright and clear, casting a gentle golden warmth through the large windows of Vittorio’s private estate. The violence of the night before felt a million miles away. The house was quiet, peaceful, smelling of fresh coffee and polished wood.
Vittorio stood in his master bathroom, washing his hands in the marble sink. The water ran red for a few seconds before turning clear. He dried his hands on a plush white towel, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked exactly the same—handsome, impeccably groomed, his dark hair perfectly styled. There was no visible trace of the monster he had unleashed hours ago.
He walked out into the hallway and opened the door to Nico’s room.
Nico was awake, sitting on the floor in his pajamas, happily zooming the glued-together wooden airplane through the air. The bright morning light illuminated his fair, rosy skin and the sweet, innocent smile on his face.
"Morning, Dad!" Nico beamed.
"Good morning, son," Vittorio said, his deep voice softening into velvet. He knelt on the floor, sitting cross-legged across from the boy.
"Look," Nico said, holding up the plane. "It flies again."
"It does," Vittorio smiled gently. "Because we fixed it. Things break, Nico. But we always fix them."
Vittorio spent the next hour playing with his son on the floor, building block towers and flying the wooden airplane. It was a pocket of absolute, untouchable peace in a life defined by warfare.
Later that afternoon, Vittorio was in his home office, reviewing the financial reports of the seized Russian assets. The victory was complete. The Volkovs were destroyed, his internal enemies were dead, and his grip on Chicago was tighter than ever.
His desk phone rang. It was an encrypted line, known only to a handful of people.
"Yes," Vittorio answered.
"Don Greco," a smooth, unfamiliar voice spoke. The accent was American, but polished, aristocratic. "My name is Elias Thorne. I represent a consortium based in New York."
Vittorio leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "I don't do business with consortiums I don't know."
"You will want to do business with us, Vittorio," Thorne said, a hint of a smile in his voice. "Because we know about the Russian shipment. We know about the steel mill. And more importantly, we know about your late wife."
Vittorio went perfectly, terrifyingly still.
"What about her?" Vittorio whispered, the deadly cold returning to his voice instantly.
"She didn't die of a simple illness, Vittorio," Thorne said softly. "And Owen wasn't working alone when he betrayed you. There is a much larger game being played, and your family is standing on the board. If you want to know who really killed the mother of your child... you will meet me in Manhattan."
The line clicked dead.
Vittorio slowly lowered the phone. The bright, luminous sun continued to shine through his office window, but a dark, chilling shadow had just fallen across his soul. He looked at a framed photo of his late wife on his desk, his jaw clenching until it ached.
May you like
He stood up, adjusting his suit jacket, his slate-gray eyes burning with a terrifying new purpose. The war in Chicago was over.
But the real war had just begun.
