Chapter 11
The private jet tore through the night sky at thirty thousand feet, the cabin bathed in the crisp, non-yellowing light of the overhead LED fixtures. Raffaele sat in the wide leather seat, studying a digital blueprint of the Greco family compound on a sleek tablet. The movie-star handsome face was carved into a mask of pure, sociopathic concentration. He wore his tailored suit jacket draped over the seat next to him, the sharp, elegant tattoos on his neck and chest visible beneath his unbuttoned shirt.
Vincent sat across from him, cleaning a suppressed submachine gun with meticulous care.
"They know we are coming, Boss," Vincent said, his gruff voice cutting through the hum of the jet engines. "Don Greco’s call wasn't just a taunt. It was a confirmation. They will have every soldier in Chicago waiting for us at that compound."
"I know," Raffaele replied slowly, his eyes never leaving the tablet. "Greco thinks he has the tactical advantage because he holds the high ground. He expects us to breach the main gates. He expects a frontal assault."
"And we aren't giving him one," Vincent grinned, snapping the receiver back onto his weapon.
"We are going to give him a ghost story," Raffaele said, turning the tablet off.
The jet touched down smoothly on a private, unlit airstrip thirty miles outside of Chicago just before 2:00 AM. The sleek, black aircraft taxied into a massive hangar where four heavily armored, unmarked SUVs were waiting.
Raffaele stepped off the plane into the freezing Midwestern night, slipping his heavy overcoat back over his shoulders. Twenty of his most elite, heavily armed operators poured out of the jet behind him. They were the shadows of the Marconi empire, trained to dismantle rival syndicates with absolute, terrifying precision.
"We don't take the roads," Raffaele ordered his men, his volume incredibly low but commanding instant obedience. "The Grecos will have spotters on every highway leading to their compound. We take the river."
The men nodded silently, loading their gear into the SUVs. They drove to an abandoned marina on the edge of the city, where three high-speed, military-grade Zodiac boats were idling in the dark water.
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Raffaele stepped onto the lead boat, checking the magazine of his sidearm. The cold wind whipped the loose strands of hair across his forehead. The war for his son's safety had begun.
"Cut the engines when we are two miles out," Raffaele commanded. "We drift in. Nobody makes a sound until we are inside the walls."
