Chapter 6 - The Unraveling of Carmine Russo
While Julian Cross was being erased from the map, the other half of the conspiracy was unraveling in the sterile, high-security ward of St. Jude Memorial Hospital.
It was 3:00 a.m.
The hospital wing was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of an oxygen machine and the steady beep of a heart monitor. In the center bed lay Carmine Russo, the fading patriarch of the Russian syndicate. A massive stroke three weeks prior had left him paralyzed on his left side, his speech slurred, his powerful frame withered down to bone and parchment skin.
He thought he was safe behind the armed guards stationed outside his door.
He thought he was insulated from the fallout of the wedding bombing because he was too sick to touch.
The door to the private suite didn't open with a crash. It clicked open with the quiet, terrifying smoothness of a deadbolt sliding back on a bank vault.
Carmine’s hazy eyes drifted toward the entrance.
Through the dim amber light of the hallway, a tall figure stepped into the room. It wasn't an assassin with a silenced pistol. It was Roman Sokolov.
Carmine tried to sit up, his mouth working frantically, trying to form words, a guttural, panicked sound rattling in his throat. “Uh... agn... arrgghh...”
Roman walked slowly to the side of the hospital bed. He didn't pull a weapon. He simply reached out and pressed the mute button on the heart monitor, silencing the frantic, repetitive beeping that was filling the room.
The sudden silence was deafening.
"Quiet down, Carmine," Roman said, his voice smooth and cold as river ice. "You'll wake the nurses."
Carmine’s clouded eyes bulged with pure, unadulterated terror. He knew why Roman was here. The bomb at the wedding hadn't just been Elena's idea; it had been authorized by the patriarch's final, desperate decree before his stroke.
Roman pulled a heavy manila envelope from his coat and dropped it onto the sterile white sheets right over Carmine’s chest.
"Your niece is currently residing in the eastern basement cell of my estate," Roman said softly, leaning over the bed until his face was inches from the old man's ear. "She confessed to every detail. The funding from your Swiss accounts. The C4 purchase through the dock union. The blueprint of the banquet hall."
Carmine’s chest heaved violently under the sheets, his fingers clawing weakly at the blanket.
"And do you know what the best part is, Carmine?" Roman continued, his voice dropping an octave into a dark, hypnotic hum. "The federal task force has already received copies of those bank transfers. By sunrise, every remaining asset, every shell company, every stash house, and every front business the Russo family owns in this country will be seized by the government."
Carmine let out a strangled, broken gasp, a tear spilling over his wrinkled eyelid and tracking down into his graying beard.
"You didn't just lose the war, old man," Roman whispered, straightening up and smoothing the lapel of his overcoat. "You didn't just lose your money or your freedom. You lost your legacy. When you die in this bed—which will be very soon, according to your chart—there won't be a Russo name left in Chicago worth remembering."
Roman turned his back and walked toward the door.
"Wait," a harsh, rattling rasp escaped Carmine’s throat, the words barely human. "Kill... just... kill me..."
Roman paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder with eyes as empty as a winter sky.
"Death is too easy for a king, Carmine," Roman said quietly. "Enjoy the rest of your hospital stay."
May you like
The door clicked shut.
The silence in the room returned, heavier and more absolute than before, as the old patriarch lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for an empire that no longer existed to finally bury him.
