Chapter 10
The sun had completely set, plunging the estate into darkness, save for the bright, brilliant security floodlights that bathed the perimeter in stark, white light. The air was thick with the scent of aviation fuel as Raffaele’s private helicopter spooled its engines on the back lawn, ready to ferry the boss to the private airstrip where the jet awaited.
Raffaele stood in the grand foyer, dressed in a heavy, tailored black overcoat that concealed the shoulder holster strapped across his unbuttoned dress shirt. He checked the magazine of his sidearm with practiced, lethal efficiency, sliding it back into place with a sharp metallic click.
"Mr. Marconi," Margaret’s voice called out softly from the top of the grand staircase.
Raffaele looked up. The older housekeeper was standing on the landing, holding a sleeping Noah in her arms. The three-year-old’s head rested heavily on her shoulder, his small chest rising and falling in a deep, peaceful rhythm.
Raffaele walked silently up the carpeted stairs. He stopped in front of Margaret, his cold, intimidating eyes softening entirely as he looked at his sleeping son.
"He went down easily?" Raffaele asked, keeping his voice to a barely audible whisper.
"He did, sir," Margaret nodded, her fair, rosy face reflecting a deep, maternal affection. "He ate a whole bowl of pasta, watched his favorite show, and didn't mention her once. He is a resilient little boy."
"He is a Marconi," Raffaele murmured.
He reached out with his right hand, gently stroking the soft, wavy hair away from Noah’s forehead. The little boy stirred slightly, letting out a soft sigh, but did not wake.
"I am leaving for a few days, Margaret," Raffaele said, withdrawing his hand and looking the housekeeper in the eye. "The estate is on full lockdown. Fifty men will remain on the property. No one enters. No one leaves. If anyone you do not recognize approaches the gates, the guards have orders to shoot on sight."
"I understand, sir," Margaret said, her voice steady. She had worked for the family long enough to know what a lockdown meant. "He will be safe with me."
"I know he will," Raffaele said, offering her a rare, genuine nod of respect. "If he asks for me, tell him Daddy is away on a business trip. Tell him I will bring him a present when I return."
"I will, Mr. Marconi. Please... be careful," Margaret whispered.
Raffaele didn't answer. He turned and walked back down the grand staircase, his heavy overcoat sweeping behind him like a shadow. He pushed through the heavy mahogany front doors, stepping out into the cool night air. The deafening roar of the helicopter blades washed over him, whipping the loose strands of hair wildly across his forehead.
Four heavily armed capos in dark suits fell into step behind him as he walked across the lawn toward the chopper.
Just as Raffaele reached the open door of the aircraft, his secure smartphone vibrated violently in his pocket. He paused, holding up a hand to halt his men. He pulled the phone out.
It was an incoming call. The caller ID was blank.
Raffaele pressed the phone to his ear over the roar of the engines. "Speak."
"Raffaele Marconi," a deep, heavily accented voice rasped through the speaker. "I hear you are coming to my city tonight."
Raffaele’s eyes narrowed into dangerous, lethal slits. It was Don Greco.
"I am," Raffaele replied smoothly, his volume low and measured, cutting perfectly through the noise. "And I am bringing hell with me."
A dark, booming laugh echoed on the other end of the line. "We will leave the front door open for you, boy."
May you like
The line went dead.
Raffaele lowered the phone. A cold, terrifying smile touched the corners of his mouth. The trap was set. The war was officially declared. He stepped into the helicopter, the doors sliding shut behind him, as the machine lifted off into the pitch-black sky, heading straight for Chicago.
