Chapter 5 - The Night of Red Snow
The winter storm returned to Chicago with a vengeance, burying the city under eight inches of heavy, white snow.
While the Duca estate remained a warm, impenetrable fortress guarded by double patrols, twenty miles away in an exclusive waterfront mansion in Lake Forest, Matteo Moretti was celebrating.
The head of the Moretti cartel—a large, arrogant man in his fifties with slicked-back grey hair and a thick diamond pinky ring—sat at the head of a long mahogany dining table, surrounded by his top capos and lieutenants.
"To the future," Matteo toasted, raising a glass of expensive crystal cognac. "Word from our contact inside the Duca estate says the boy won't last until the weekend. Once Lorenzo buries his only heir, he will lose his mind. The East Coast territory will be ours for the taking."
The capos raised their glasses, laughing heartily.
CRASH!
The heavy oak front doors of the mansion were blown completely off their hinges in a blinding flash of orange fire and shattering wood.
Before the smoke could even clear, heavily armed men in black tactical gear poured through the shattered entrance like a tidal wave of shadow and steel.
Panicked shouts rang out. Guards reached for their weapons, but they were cut down before their fingers could even clear their holsters. The efficiency of the attack was terrifying, surgical, and absolute.
Within ninety seconds, every capos in the room was pinned face-down on the Persian rug, surrounded by laser sights.
The smoke parted slowly.
Lorenzo Duca walked into the dining room.
He wore a long dark trench coat over a tailored black suit. In his right hand, he held a sleek black silenced pistol. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated vengeance—the face of a father who had walked through hell to protect his child.
Matteo Moretti sat frozen in his chair, his face white as the snow falling outside the shattered doors.
"L-Lorenzo..." Matteo stammered, his glass slipping from his trembling fingers and shattering on the floor. "This... this is a violation of the syndicate treaty! You cannot attack my home—"
"You touched my son," Lorenzo said. His voice wasn't loud. It was a soft, terrifying whisper that chilled the room more than the freezing winter wind blowing through the broken doors.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about!" Matteo lied desperately, sweat pouring down his forehead. "The boy is sick! He has a disease—"
Lorenzo stepped forward, lifting the heavy silver cognac decanter from the table. Without a word, he slammed it down onto Matteo’s hand, shattering the bones in his fingers.
Matteo shrieked in agony, clutching his crushed hand to his chest.
"Nurse Higgins confessed two hours ago, Matteo," Lorenzo said coldly, leveling the silenced barrel directly between Matteo’s terrified eyes. "She gave me the bank account numbers. She gave me the encrypted communication logs. She gave me everything."
Matteo’s eyes filled with sheer, primal terror. "Lorenzo... please! Mercy! We can make a deal! I'll give you half my territory! Millions! Whatever you want!"
"My wife died three years ago because of you," Lorenzo whispered, his finger tightening against the trigger. "My son suffered for three years because of you. You don't have enough blood in your veins to pay for what you took from my family."
THWIP.
A single silenced shot echoed through the shattered dining room.
Matteo Moretti slumped forward onto the mahogany table, his reign ended in a fraction of a second.
Lorenzo turned his back on the room, stepping over the debris as he walked out into the falling snow.
"Clean it up," Lorenzo ordered Marco quietly as he stepped into the rear of his black sedan. "Erase the name Moretti from this city. By morning, I want every asset they owned transferred to a trust fund under my son's name."
"Yes, Don Lorenzo," Marco bowed his head.
As the sedan glided silently away down the snow-covered driveway, Lorenzo pulled his satellite phone from his coat and dialed the private line to his estate.
The line connected on the second ring.
"Hello?" Elena’s soft, warm voice answered from the other end.
The cold, deadly rage that had consumed Lorenzo’s chest for the past four hours instantly dissolved, replaced by a deep, overwhelming sense of relief.
"It's me," Lorenzo said softly, leaning his head back against the leather headrest. "How are they?"
"They're wonderful," Elena smiled over the line. Lorenzo could hear the soft sounds of children giggling in the background. "Lucas just finished a whole plate of pancakes. And Leo is trying to teach him how to build a skyscraper out of wooden blocks. When are you coming home, Lorenzo?"
Home.
May you like
The word no longer meant a cold stone fortress built for war. It meant a bright room on the second floor filled with warm light, childhood laughter, and the woman who had brought his family back from the dead.
"I'm coming home now, Elena," Lorenzo whispered, a genuine smile touching his lips. "I'm coming home."
