"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 7 / 10

Chapter 7 - The Gathering StormThe rain poured down over Chicago in sheets of gray water, blurring the neon lights of downtown into bleeding streaks of red and green.

We moved silently through the storm drains beneath downtown, a tactical strike force consisting of my twelve most loyal soldiers—men whose families had served the Moretti name for three generations—led by Rocco and myself. We didn't use standard vehicles. We used industrial maintenance carts, slipping undetected beneath the city streets right up to the sub-basement of the Marcone Tower.

Marcone’s headquarters was a monolithic glass skyscraper on Lake Shore Drive, heavily guarded by private security contractors and Syndicate enforcers armed with military-grade hardware.

We breached the sub-basement security checkpoint in under ninety seconds without firing a single shot—using high-frequency sonic jammers to blind their closed-circuit cameras and silent zip-ties to neutralize the guards.

As we rode the freight elevator up to the penthouse suite on the forty-fifth floor, I checked the magazine of my Sig Sauer for the third time.

“Rocco,” I said quietly as the digital floor counter ticked upward toward forty-four. “When those doors open, I want Marcone alive. The rest of the council can burn.”

“Understood, boss,” Rocco nodded, racking the bolt of his rifle.

The elevator bell chimed softly. 45.

The heavy steel doors slid open, revealing a sprawling, opulent penthouse suite furnished with white leather sofas, crystal chandeliers, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the raging storm over Lake Michigan.

Standing in the center of the room, surrounded by six armed bodyguards, was Don Salvatore Marcone—an old man with silver hair, sharp tailored Italian wool, and a gold-headed cane resting in his frail hand.

“Alejandro,” Marcone smiled, unbothered, taking a slow sip from a crystal tumbler of scotch. “You actually had the audacity to climb up here. I must applaud your stupidity.”

“You took everything from my wife, Salvatore,” I said, stepping out of the elevator car into the open room, my boots leaving wet footprints on the white carpet. “And you tried to steal my sons.”

“A necessary business transaction,” Marcone sneered, gesturing lazily with his glass. “The underworld has no room for sentimentality, Alejandro. Empires are built on blood and leverage. Kill him.”

The six bodyguards raised their weapons simultaneously.

They were fast.

We were faster.

Before their fingers could depress their triggers, my twelve loyal soldiers poured out of the elevator behind me, unleashing a devastating, coordinated crossfire that shattered the crystal chandeliers and dropped all six guards before they could fire a single round.