Chapter 2 - Shadows in the East Wing
I stepped out of the bunker and locked the heavy vault door from the outside using a mechanical key. The air in the mansion was cold and heavy, carrying the scent of rain, wet stone, and ozone from the cut circuit breakers.
I moved through the dark corridors like a ghost. This mansion had belonged to the Romano family for three generations. My father had built secret passages, tactical vantage points, and reinforced choke points into the very architecture. Marcus knew the standard security blueprints, but he didn't know the secrets built into the structure by men who lived and died by the blade.
As I reached the grand staircase overlooking the main foyer, I heard muffled footsteps below. Tactical boots scraping against marble. The soft click of night-vision goggles being lowered into place.
There were four men moving in a tight wedge formation through the dark lobby, armed with suppressed submachine guns. They were wearing unmarked black uniforms—professionals, mercenaries hired from outside the Chicago territory to ensure no local loose ends could be traced back to the orchestrator.
Behind them walked Marcus. He held an unlit flashlight in one hand and a silenced pistol in the other, his face illuminated faintly by the red standby light on his comms unit.
"Check the master suite first," Marcus whispered, his voice carrying clearly up the stairwell. "If Romano came back early, he’s either asleep or in his study. The moment you see him, put two rounds in his chest. No speeches. No negotiations. We make it look like a rival hit from New York."
"What about the staff?" one of the mercenaries asked in a cold, flat accent.
"Leave no witnesses," Marcus replied without a shred of hesitation. "The housekeeper and her kid are in the servant quarters. Burn the East Wing on our way out to cover the evidence."
Hearing him discuss executing a sick woman and a little girl in cold blood stirred a violent fire in my chest. But anger without precision is useless in a gunfight. I took a slow, deep breath, letting my heart rate drop, settling into the cold, calculated mindset that had made the name Vincent Romano feared across three states.
I slipped into the narrow shadow behind the grand grandfather clock at the top of the stairs. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a silver coin—a custom challenge coin given to high-ranking members of the syndicate.
I tossed it over the railing.
The coin clinked sharply against the marble floor of the west hallway, thirty feet away from my actual position.
Instantly, two of the mercenaries snapped their weapons toward the sound, moving swiftly down the west corridor to investigate. Marcus and the remaining two guards paused near the base of the stairs, their eyes darting into the darkness.
"Check the landing," Marcus ordered the third mercenary, pointing up the stairs.
The mercenary began to ascend, his boots stepping carefully on the carpeted stairs, his suppressed rifle raised to his eye line. He passed my position behind the clock tower, his back entirely exposed.
I stepped out from the shadows without making a sound.
Before he could react, I wrapped my left arm around his neck, crushing his windpipe to cut off any sound, while driving my tactical knife precisely into the joint between his neck and body armor. He went limp instantly. I caught his rifle before it could hit the floor, gently lowering his body onto the carpeted stairs.
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Down in the foyer, Marcus heard the faint rustle of fabric. "Gomez? What do you see?"
I didn't answer. I picked up the fallen mercenary's flashbang grenade from his tactical vest, pulled the pin, and dropped it straight over the banister into the center of the foyer.
