Chapter 2 - The Siege of River NorthThe snow outside L’Etoile was falling so thick it turned the streetlights into dim, orange halos against the black Chicago sky.
Inside the grand marble foyer, three floors below my dining room, the heavy wrought-iron and glass front doors were locked with a heavy brass deadbolt. Standing outside on the slush-covered pavement were four men in heavy wool coats, their hands tucked deep into their pockets, their faces illuminated by the neon glow of the restaurant sign.
The lead man was an enforcer named Miller—a scarred, cold-eyed killer who had served as Victor Vance’s chief enforcer for a decade.
I walked down the grand curved staircase slowly, my heavy leather dress shoes clicking sharply against the marble treads. Flanking me were Marco and four of my most ruthless enforcers, their weapons concealed but their postures fluid, relaxed, and lethal.
Through the reinforced glass of the front door, Miller saw me approaching. A cruel, yellow-toothed grin spread across his face. He tapped on the glass with a heavy steel ring.
I stopped two feet from the door, looking at him through the glass. I didn't open it.
Miller gestured for me to unlock the latch, pulling a folded white document from his breast pocket and pressing it flat against the glass.
“Dominic!” Miller’s muffled voice carried through the heavy timber frame. “We’re here on official business! That little girl stole property belonging to the Vance Estate! Hand the kid over, and we walk away!”
I didn't look at the paper. I looked straight into Miller’s small, rat-like eyes.
“Property?” I asked, my voice smooth, quiet, and deadpan as Marco cracked the side ventilation panel six inches to let my voice carry outside.
“The baby, Moretti!” Miller barked, dropping his smile, his tone turning sharp and arrogant. “His mother owed Mr. Vance eight million dollars in corporate debt before she died! The child is collateral under the agreement! We have a signed court order!”
A cold, terrible quiet settled over the foyer.
My guards didn't move. They didn't draw their weapons. They simply looked at me, waiting for the word that would tear the night apart.
“The baby’s name is Julian Moretti Jr., Miller,” I said softly, every word carved from raw, unyielding iron. “He is my nephew. He carries my blood. And in this city, nobody takes a Moretti as collateral.”
Miller’s jaw twitched. He took a half-step back, his hand dipping toward the flap of his heavy coat. “You’re making a mistake, Dominic! Victor Vance has fifty men in this district! You start a war over a orphan brat, and you’ll burn everything your family built!”
“Victor Vance killed my brother, Miller,” I replied, my voice dropping into a register so low and dangerous that Miller’s three men on the pavement visibly stiffened. “He took six months to force my family into the dark. But his time is up.”
I raised my right hand, giving Marco a simple, two-finger gesture.
“Clear the porch,” I ordered.
Before Miller could pull his weapon from his coat, Marco raised his suppressed SIG Sauer through the ventilation slot.
THWIP! THWIP!
Two high-velocity rounds shattered the heavy glass lantern above the doorway, showering Miller and his men in a cascade of sharp, sparking glass. The enforcers shrieked, scrambling backward off the slippery granite steps, tumbling into the snowbank near their idling black SUV.
“Tell Victor I’m keeping the baby,” I called out into the freezing wind as Miller scrambled into the passenger seat of his vehicle. “And tell him to prepare his estate. Because before the sun rises tomorrow... I’m coming for his head.”
The black SUV tore away from the curb, its tires spinning wildly against the ice, leaving behind deep black ruts in the pristine white snow.
I turned on my heel, walking back toward the grand staircase.
“Marco,” I commanded cleanly.
May you like
“Boss?”
“Move the girl and my nephew to the penthouse in Gold Coast. Put twenty men on the perimeter. And call my underbosses—tell them the Moretti syndicate is mobilized for total war.”
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