Chapter 5 - The Ambush at Evanston
Two weeks passed.
The tension in Chicago grew thick enough to cut with a knife. The Outfit’s council had split into two factions—those who backed Victor Rossi’s call for blood, and those who feared the terrifying military and financial strength of the Hale empire.
Inside the Lake Forest estate, however, a quiet miracle was unfolding.
Oliver was talking again. Not just single words, but full sentences. He sat with Emma in the library every morning, reading fairy tales, building elaborate block castles, and laughing—a sound that hadn't echoed through the tall hallways since Serena’s death.
Emma had moved her belongings into the master wing, though she occupied a private bedroom adjoining mine. Every evening, the three of us ate dinner together at the long mahogany table—a real family, bound not by blood or tradition, but by a shared promise.
On a freezing Tuesday morning, Emma received a phone call from the Evanston rehabilitation center.
"It’s Clara’s physical therapist," Emma said, stepping into my study, her face pale with worry. "They say she had a sudden drop in her oxygen levels during her morning therapy session. They're transferring her to the ICU at Saint Jude's."
I stood up immediately from my desk, reaching for my heavy overcoat. "I'll have the convoy prepared."
"No, Preston," Emma pleaded. "You have the union meeting at the docks in thirty minutes! If you miss it, the river workers will strike!"
"My family comes before a dock strike, Emma," I said firmly.
"Please," she insisted, taking my hand—a sudden, warm gesture that sent a jolt straight through my chest. "Take Julian and the main security team to the docks. I’ll take Marcus and the armored suburban to Evanston. It’s only twenty minutes away."
I looked down at her hand wrapped around mine, feeling the fierce, protective instinct rising within me.
"Marcus stays with you at all times," I instructed sternly. "Two backup vehicles follow your bumper. The moment you arrive at the hospital, you call my private line."
"I promise," she whispered.
Forty minutes later, I stood in the glass office overlooking the cold waters of the Chicago River, watching crate loaders work beneath the towering yellow cranes. My phone vibrated sharply in my pocket.
It wasn't Emma. It was Julian.
"Preston!" Julian’s voice screamed over the receiver, heavy with background static and the distant, terrifying sound of rapid gunfire. "It’s an ambush! Rossi’s men cut off the suburban on the Ridge Avenue overpass in Evanston! They knocked Marcus’s car off the road—"
My vision went completely red. The glass mug in my hand shattered against the concrete floor.
"Where are they?" I roared into the phone.
"The overpass near the old train yards!" Julian shouted. "They took her, Preston! They dragged Emma into a red delivery van and headed north toward the industrial district!"
May you like
I didn't answer. I slammed the phone into my pocket, pulled a black tactical weapon from my desk drawer, and looked at my chief enforcers standing in the office.
"Call every man we have in Cook County," I commanded, my voice dropping into an icy, lethal register that made the entire room freeze. "We aren't holding meetings anymore. We're hunting."
