Chapter 9
The shadows in the study began to lengthen as the afternoon sun dipped lower, though the cinematic, natural light still held no yellow tint. Raffaele walked back to his desk, setting the empty crystal glass down with a definitive clink.
"Victoria," Raffaele murmured, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "Victoria is currently sitting in a town car, fleeing back to her handlers, believing she has merely lost an engagement ring. We will let her believe that for exactly twenty-four hours."
"You want us to let her make it to Chicago?" Vincent asked, slightly surprised.
"I want her to run to her brother," Raffaele corrected, his voice a low, lethal hum. "I want her to walk into his stronghold, look him in the eye, and tell him that her mission failed because she couldn't resist abusing a three-year-old boy. I want the Grecos to realize exactly how pathetic their asset is before we take her from them."
"They'll lock her down, Boss," Vincent warned. "If she makes it to their compound, they'll put fifty men around her."
"I don't care if they put five hundred men around her," Raffaele said smoothly. He leaned his knuckles on the mahogany desk, the sharp, refined tattoos on his hands flexing. "Prepare my jet. Have the strike team ready by midnight. We are flying to Chicago."
Vincent’s eyes widened. A direct assault on the Greco family compound in their own territory was practically unheard of. It was an act of open, undeniable warfare.
"Raffaele, if we hit the Grecos in their own city, the Commission will demand a sit-down," Vincent cautioned, his loyalty absolute but his tactical mind calculating the fallout. "It will start a war across three states."
"Let it," Raffaele whispered softly.
He walked around the desk, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood.
"They sent a spy into my home," Raffaele continued, stopping inches from his underboss. His cold, intimidating eyes bored into Vincent's. "They attempted to infiltrate my syndicate. But worst of all, they allowed a woman to put her hands on my son. There is no sit-down for that, Vincent. There is only ash."
"Understood, Boss," Vincent nodded firmly, feeling the terrifying, magnetic pull of Raffaele's leadership. "I will assemble the men. The jet will be fueled and ready by midnight."
"Make sure the men know the parameters," Raffaele said, turning his gaze toward the door. "Victoria Hale is not to be killed in the crossfire. I want her brought back to me alive."
"And her daughter? Sophie?" Vincent asked carefully.
Raffaele paused. The image of the nine-year-old girl in her party dress flashed through his mind. He was a monster, a killer, and a ruthless warlord. But he was not without a code.
"The child is innocent," Raffaele stated, his voice dropping all traces of menace, leaving only a cold, objective truth. "Ensure the girl is secured and handed over to child services in Chicago before the assault begins. She will not witness what happens to her mother."
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"Yes, Boss," Vincent said, turning on his heel and exiting the study to prepare for war.
Raffaele stood alone in the quiet room. The adrenaline of the confrontation had faded, leaving behind a cold, calculating focus. He had protected his son, but the true battle was still on the horizon.
