"The most feared mafia boss in Chicago came home three hours early and found his housekeeper secretly feeding four identical little boys at the dining table no one had touched since his wife died. He was about to demand an explanation when one boy pointed at him and asked, “Elena, is that the man from the picture?” The spoon fell from her hand. / Chapter 3 / 10

Chapter 3 - Blood in the FoyerThe grand foyer of the Moretti estate was a cathedral of wealth, marble, and intimidation, featuring a sweeping dual staircase that curved upward beneath a crystal chandelier the size of a luxury car.

I stepped out of the dining room shadows, flattening my back against the cold stone pillar near the base of the west stairs. The heavy oak front doors exploded inward in a shower of splinters and reinforced steel bolts. Flashbangs hissed across the marble floor, filling the air with blinding white light and deafening concussive roars.

I closed my eyes an instant before detonation, letting muscle memory and years of urban warfare guide my footing.

Two masked operatives in tactical black gear poured through the smoking threshold, their rifles raised, sweeping the room. They expected a panicked household. They expected a mob boss caught off guard by domestic betrayal.

Instead, they walked into a executioner.

My first round caught the lead operative square in the ceramic strike plate of his vest, dropping him instantly with the sheer kinetic force. Before his partner could pivot his barrel, my second shot took him through the throat.

“Clear!” a harsh voice shouted from the portico outside. “Sweep the ground floor! The target package is four juveniles! Boss wants them alive, but nobody else leaves breathing!”

Four more men filtered in, moving with military precision. They spread out, boots clicking rhythmically against the polished marble. I melted backward into the shadows beneath the grand staircase, blending into the mahogany paneling like a ghost.

A heavy hand brushed past my shoulder. I didn't hesitate. I dropped low, sweeping his legs out from under him with a vicious kick, and drove the butt of my pistol down into his tactical helmet with bone-crushing force. He went limp without a sound.

I stripped his secondary weapon—an MP5 submachine gun with an integrated suppressor—and checked the digital ammo counter. Full mag. Thirty rounds of 9mm hollow-points.

“Hey! You down there! Drop the weapon!”

I turned slowly toward the second-floor landing. Standing by the velvet- draped banister was Viktor Vance, my former lieutenant and the man I had trusted with my treasury for a decade. He held a SIG Sauer pointed directly at the space where I stood, a smug, cruel grin twisting his scarred face.

“Well, well,” Viktor sneered, resting his forearm on the railing. “Look at the great Alejandro Moretti, cornered in his own mausoleum. You really had no idea, did you? Sofia played you like a cheap fiddle. She hid your little bastards right under your nose for four years while you drank whiskey and ruled a hollow empire.”

“You killed my wife, Viktor,” I said, my voice carrying an icy calm that echoed strangely against the vaulted ceiling.

“She made a choice,” Viktor shrugged, leaning forward. “She refused to hand over the boys to the Syndicate board. We needed clean blood to cement our merger with the New York families. A Moretti heir under our control? That’s infinite power, Alex. You were too blind with grief to see it.”

“You’re right about one thing,” I murmured, shifting my grip on the MP5.