Chapter 1 - The Rainbow on the Iron King
The silence inside the grand study of the Romano estate had always been heavy, carrying the weight of decades of blood, backroom deals, and quiet execution orders. High ceilings of hand-carved mahogany trapped the scent of expensive Cuban tobacco and aged bourbon, while tall arched windows framed the gray, torrential downpour battering the Gold Coast of Chicago.
On a normal Tuesday, four armed men stood positioned near the heavy oak doors, their eyes scanning the room, their hands resting flat near the custom sidearms tucked beneath their tailored coats. They were men who had watched rivals beg on their knees on wet warehouse floors. They were men who had seen Adrian Romano dismantle an entire syndicate in a single weekend without raising his voice above a calm, icy monotone.
Yet at that exact moment, every single soldier in the room was holding his breath, paralyzed by sheer, unadulterated terror.
I sat motionless in the leather armchair, my head tilted slightly backward. The cold, wet bristles of a cheap plastic paintbrush dragged across my jawline, leaving behind a thick, uneven streak of crimson washable paint.
Standing on her tiptoes on the hand-woven Persian rug, three-year-old Lily Morales concentrated with the intensity of a master artist. Her tongue poked out from the corner of her mouth, her small brow furrowed beneath wisps of curly dark hair. In her left hand, she held "Buttons"—a frayed, gray plush rabbit missing its left button eye. In her right hand, she wielded her red paint.
"Hold still, Mister Big House," she whispered sternly, her tiny voice cutting through the suffocating tension of the room. "The red is for your heart. You forgot to draw your heart."
Her mother, Elena, was frozen by the archway, a stack of freshly folded linen clutching against her chest like a shield. Her face was entirely drained of color. She looked at me, then at her daughter, her body trembling so violently that the linen shook in her arms. She knew who I was. Even if I had never raised my voice to her, the city spoke in hushed tones about the Romano empire. She knew that men who offended me usually vanished into the icy depths of Lake Michigan before dawn.
"Lily..." Elena choked out, her voice barely a breath. "Oh God... Lily, step away from Mr. Romano right now. Please..."
I raised a single finger, silencing Elena without looking at her.
"Let her finish, Elena," I said softly.
My voice sounded strange, even to my own ears. It lacked the sharp, cutting authority that usually made politicians sweat through their linen shirts. I didn't move a muscle as Lily carefully rounded out a lopsided red heart on my left cheek, directly over a faint, faded scar I had earned in a alleyway shootout fifteen years ago.
When she finished, she took two tiny steps back, her purple sneakers squeaking softly on the floorboards. She placed her hands on her hips and critically examined her handiwork.
"There," Lily announced, nodding with immense satisfaction. "Now you don't look like a dark cloud anymore. Right, Buttons?" She held the rabbit up to her ear, pretending to listen. "Buttons says you look very pretty."
A faint, muffled sound came from the doorway. It was Marcus, my head of security—a six-foot-four veteran who had served two tours in Fallujah and ten years as my primary enforcer. He was attempting to cough to disguise the fact that his jaw had dropped nearly to his chest.
I slowly stood up from the armchair. At thirty-five, standing over six feet tall, draped in a three-thousand-dollar charcoal suit, I towered over the tiny girl. I walked over to the gilded mirror resting above the marble fireplace.
The reflection staring back at me was utterly ridiculous.
A bright, crooked yellow sun beamed from my right cheekbone. A brilliant cobalt blue butterfly spanned across my forehead, its wings stretching toward my temples. A lopsided green-and-purple rainbow crossed the bridge of my nose, and a bright red heart sat squarely over the scar on my jaw.
I looked like a canvas in a preschool art class.
And yet, as I stared at the bright colors covering the cold, stony features that had frightened an entire city for a decade, I felt a strange, unfamiliar tightness in my chest. For five long years—since the night my younger sister, Sofia, was taken from me in a targeted car bombing meant for my limousine—my face had felt like a dead mask. I had forgotten how to smile. I had forgotten what it felt like to be seen as anything other than a weapon.
To the syndicate, I was the Iron King of Chicago.
To this three-year-old child, I was just a lonely man sitting in a big, dark house who needed a little color.
I knelt down on one knee, my expensive trousers resting flat on the paint-spattered newspaper Lily had laid out earlier. I brought myself down to her eye level.
"Does Buttons approve?" I asked, my face completely serious despite the butterfly on my forehead.
Lily stepped closer, reaching out her small, paint-stained hand to gently touch the red heart on my cheek. "Buttons says you have to keep it on all day. Or the sad cloud will come back."
"Then I suppose I have to keep it on," I replied.
Elena stumbled forward, dropping the linen onto a side table, tears welling in her soft brown eyes. "Mr. Romano... I am so, so sorry. I turned my back for two minutes to clear the guest bedrooms... I will pack our things immediately. We’ll leave, and you won't ever have to see us—"
"Elena," I said, standing up smoothly and facing her. My tone remained firm, but the edges were softer than she had ever heard them. "Did I tell you to pack?"
She blinked, wiping a tear from her cheek. "N-no, sir. But..."
"Your daughter has decorated my study," I said, turning my gaze to the painted newsprint scattered across my imported rug. "And she has given me a direct order from her rabbit. You will not pack. You will finish your shift, and Lily will remain here whenever her daycare is closed."
Elena stared at me as if I had spoken in a foreign tongue. "You're... you're not angry?"
"I am a great many things, Elena," I said quietly, looking down at Lily, who was already busily dipping her brush into a jar of yellow paint to touch up Buttons' tail. "But I am not angry with a child who brought light into a tomb."
I turned to Marcus, who was still standing by the door, his face a mix of awe and profound confusion.
"Marcus," I ordered flatly.
"Yes, Boss?" he blurted out, snapping to attention.
"Call the dock commanders. Tell them the 4:00 PM strategy meeting regarding the shipments from Montreal is rescheduled. Tell them we will meet at the private dining room at the Drake Hotel instead."
Marcus hesitated, his eyes darting to my painted face. "Uh... Boss? Should I tell them to give you an hour to... wash up?"
May you like
I looked at my reflection in the mirror one last time—at the yellow sun, the blue butterfly, and the red heart over my scar.
"No," I said, my jaw setting into a hard, unyielding line. "We leave in twenty minutes. Exactly as I am."
