Chapter 2 - Clearing the Gate
The mansion's basement level was a labyrinth of stone arches and old coal chutes, designed during the Prohibition era to smuggle crates of alcohol out of sight of federal agents. I navigated it by touch, my boots making no sound against the damp concrete.
My immediate priority wasn't the mercenaries inside; it was Marco at the front gate. If he realized the entry team had failed, he would flee, taking the identity of his true employers to the grave.
I bypassed the main foyer, where the backup generators would normally be housed, assuming they had been sabotaged with thermite or wire cutters. Instead, I utilized a ventilation shaft that exited behind the greenhouse, offering a clear line of sight to the primary security gate.
The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of incoming rain from Lake Michigan. Through the glass panes of the greenhouse, I spotted Marco. He was pacing beside his armored SUV, his fingers twitching over the screen of a encrypted satellite phone.
"Pick up, damn it," I heard him mutter into the receiver as I crept through the rows of imported orchids.
"He won't pick up, Marco," I said, stepping out from the shadows of the glass structure.
Marco spun around, his weapon drawing halfway from his holster before the sight of my barrel locked between his eyes froze his muscles. His jaw dropped, his face reflecting the pale moonlight as he realized the war in New York hadn't kept me away.
"Boss," he stammered, his fingers trembling against the leather of his holster. "I... I thought you were in Manhattan until Friday. We had an incident with the grid. The power went out, and—"
"Save the performance," I cut him off, my voice flat. "The entry team is dead in the shoe-shine room. The radio you gave them is in my pocket. And I have a very interesting piece of art in my jacket that places you exactly where you're standing, holding the rifle you're currently trying to hide behind your leg."
Marco’s eyes darted toward the perimeter wall, calculating his chances of survival if he bolted. "Who told you? None of my guys leaked this. We monitored every line."
"A cleaner did," I said, the image of Zoe’s polish-stained face flashing through my mind. "A cleaner who sees everything you think you're hiding."
Understanding—and terror—registered in his eyes. He knew the rules of the Romano family. Treason wasn't met with a trial; it was met with erasure. He lowered his hand from his gun, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
"It was the Moretti family," Marco whispered, his voice cracking. "They offered me five million. They said you were stretched too thin after the New York campaign. They said Chicago was up for grabs."
"Chicago is never up for grabs," I said.
May you like
Before he could offer another useless plea, I pulled the trigger. The single shot echoed across the empty grounds, swallowed by the rising wind. I walked over to his body, retrieved his satellite phone, and checked the recent call logs. The last number dialed belonged to a burner phone located within the city limits—specifically, the penthouse district controlled by the Moretti family remnants.
They thought I was weak. They thought the crown was heavy enough to make me stumble. I looked back toward the dark silhouette of the mansion, knowing that before I could deal with the Moretti syndicate, I had a promise to keep to a little girl counting in the dark.
