"He's Not Worth the Surcharge": When Chicago's Most Feared Mafia Boss Was About to Execute a Traitor on a Freshly Cleaned Rug, an Exhausted Secretary's Unflinching Demand Triggered Total Despair / Chapter 4 / 7

Chapter 4 - Into the Lion’s DenForty minutes later, a heavily armored black Mercedes-Maybach tore through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago, blowing through red lights with impunity. In the backseat, I sat loading a spare magazine for my father's Smith & Wesson, my hands completely steady. Fear had burned away, leaving behind a cold, crystalline fury.

Dante sat beside me, sharpening a heavy, tactical combat knife against a whetstone with rhythmic, hypnotic strokes.

"Arthur Vance has been with the family for twelve years," Dante said, his eyes never leaving the blade. "He handled my shipping lanes after my wife died. I trusted him like a brother."

"Trust is a luxury people in our tax bracket can't afford," I replied coldly, racking the slide of my pistol with a sharp clack.

Dante glanced sideways at me, a faint, dark smirk touching his lips. "You know, Emily, every minute you talk like a veteran mob enforcer, a little piece of my soul confesses that I'm completely ruining you."

"Save the therapy for later, Dante. We're heading into an abandoned steel foundry on the Calumet River, outnumbered by armed men who want to hijack your entire financial empire, and my brother is sitting in the middle of it. If we survive this, you can give me a performance review."

Dante let out a low, gravelly laugh—the second time I had heard him laugh in two days, though this one carried the lethal edge of a sharpened blade. "Deal."

The Maybach slowed to a crawl half a mile from the abandoned Acme Steel plant on the far South Side. Towering rusted skeletal frames of old blast furnaces loomed against the stormy night sky like the bones of prehistoric beasts. Floodlights cut through the driving rain from the main loading bay, where three black SUVs sat idling.

"Vince and Rocco have the perimeter covered," Dante whispered, killing the car's headlights as we pulled behind a stack of rusted shipping containers. "Twelve men total inside the main casting floor. Arthur Vance is running the show, backed by a dozen mercenaries from the North Side."

"And Leo?"

"They have him tied to a chair near the central catwalk," Dante said, tapping a tactical earpiece. "Rocco confirms visual. He's scared, but unharmed so far."

"Good," I murmured, checking the safety on my gun. "Because if Arthur touches so much as one hair on my brother's head, I'm going to find out how much Statewide Maintenance charges for cleaning up executive-level treason."

Dante actually chuckled out loud. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Emily."

"Mr. Marino, you're already on my payroll. That's close enough."

We slipped out of the vehicle into the freezing downpour, melting into the shadows like ghosts. The industrial stench of sulfur, rust, and damp concrete filled the air as we reached the side personnel door of the foundry.

Two guards stood outside smoking, their silhouettes backlit by the harsh indoor lighting.

Before I could even raise my pistol, Dante moved with terrifying, fluid violence. He crossed the distance in two silent strides, catching the first guard by the throat and driving his knee upward into his chest with a sickening crunch. As the second guard reached for his holster, Dante spun, driving the butt of his Glock into the man's temple, dropping him into the mud without a single sound.

It was over in three seconds.