Chapter 4 - The Lion at the Gate
The rain had turned into a heavy downpour by the time I walked down the grand curved staircase into the main foyer.
I wore a dark charcoal suit, my long wool coat draped over my shoulders. Behind me walked Julian Mercer and four of my top enforcers—men who had stood with me through three territory wars in West Chicago.
Through the tall glass doors of the entrance, the bright headlights of six black SUVs blinded the driveway, casting long, menacing shadows across the wet stone apron.
Standing in the center of the driveway, sheltered beneath a black umbrella held by a heavy-set enforcer, was Victor Rossi.
He was sixty-two years old, with slicked-back silver hair, a scarred jawline, and a reputation for ruthless, unbridled violence. Beside him stood his chief enforcer, a hulking man known as Marco "The Hammer" Moretti.
I pushed open the heavy oak doors, stepping out onto the covered portico.
"Victor," I said, my voice cutting through the sound of the falling rain. "You're trespassing on Hale property. You know the rules about bringing armed convoys past Lake Forest line."
Victor Rossi stepped forward, a cruel, mocking smile stretching across his wrinkled face.
"Rules, Preston?" Victor rasped, his voice sounding like dry stones grinding together. "You speak to me of rules? Last night, you stood in front of the entire Outfit and rejected my daughter Isabella for a housemaid! You disgraced the Rossi name in front of every boss in Illinois!"
"I made a public vow to save my son," I replied coldly. "Emma Carter made my son speak. Your daughter stood in the corner drinking champagne."
Victor’s smile vanished, replaced by an ugly, dark rage. "That girl is an illegal intrusion! My sources tell me her father was Thomas Carter—the snitch who tried to blow our Boston shipping lines six years ago!"
My eyes narrowed into lethal slits. "So you admit you burned Pier 42?"
Victor let out a harsh, barking laugh. "I admit nothing! But I know why she’s here, Preston. She didn't come to your house to clean toilets. She came to spy on you! She’s using your mute kid to climb into your bed and pull your empire down from the inside!"
From the top of the grand staircase inside the house, the quiet sound of a door opening echoed.
I glanced back through the glass. Emma stood at the landing, holding Oliver’s hand. She was looking down through the glass doors, watching Victor Rossi with absolute, unyielding hatred.
Victor saw her through the glass. He pointed a gloved finger straight at her face.
"Hand the girl over, Preston!" Victor demanded, his men taking a collective step forward, their hands slipping inside their leather coats. "Hand her over to face Outfit justice for her father’s crimes, and I’ll let you keep your shipping docks in the south river. Refuse... and we start a war tonight that will burn Lake Forest to the ground."
The air became deathly still. The only sound was the patter of rain against the stone steps.
I stepped down off the portico, walking straight up to Victor Rossi until the tip of my shoes touched his. I didn't reach for a weapon. I didn't look back at my guards.
I simply leaned down, looking directly into the old mobster’s eyes.
"Emma Carter is my wife," I whispered, my voice carrying a quiet, terrifying certainty that made Victor’s umbrella holder take a involuntary step back. "She carries the Hale name now. If you so much as breathe her name again, Victor... I won't just take your south river docks. I will tear down your family brick by brick, burn your holdings to ashes, and bury you in the concrete of your own construction sites."
Victor stared at me, his chest heaving with fury, realizing that he had pushed a sleeping giant far past the point of diplomacy.
"This isn't over, Hale," Victor snarled, backing away toward his SUV. "You chose a maid over the Outfit. See how long your money protects her when the snow starts falling."
He jumped into the rear seat of the lead SUV, slamming the door. The convoy spun their tires on the wet gravel, roaring back through the iron gates into the dark rain.
I turned and walked back inside, shutting the heavy oak doors behind me.
Emma was standing at the bottom of the stairs, her small hand clutching Oliver’s shoulder. She looked at me, her gray eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something deeper—something that looked like respect.
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"You defended my father," she whispered.
"I defended my family," I corrected her, walking up to them and resting my hand gently on Oliver’s dark head. "And from this moment on, Emma... that includes you."
