Chapter 4 - Setting the Board
Dr. Aris arrived forty minutes later, accompanied by two trusted medical assistants carrying portable oxygen tanks and intravenous drips. Within an hour, Sarah’s room looked like a private hospital suite. An IV line was delivering high-dose antibiotics and fluids into her arm, and her erratic breathing had slowed into a stable, rhythmic pattern.
"Advanced bacterial influenza," Aris diagnosed, adjusting the drip rate. "If she had spent another night without treatment, her lungs would have filled completely. You caught it just in time, Leo."
"Zoe caught it," I corrected, looking over at the armchair where the little girl had finally fallen into a deep sleep, her teddy bear tucked under her arm. "Keep a nurse here twenty-four hours a day. Spare no expense."
Once the medical team was settled, I descended to the basement command center—a high-tech bunker beneath the wine cellar equipped with satellite feeds and encrypted communication arrays. My captains, who had been alerted by the short-lived firefight, were already waiting for me via secure video link.
"The Moretti family thinks I’m still handling the fallout in Manhattan," I addressed the screen, my voice echoing off the concrete walls. "They subverted Marco. They sent a hit team into my home tonight."
A collective murmur of anger rippled through the digital feed. Frank, my underboss in South Chicago, leaned forward into his camera. "What are the orders, Boss? We can have three crews outside their downtown club before sunrise."
"No," I countered. "An open assault plays into their hands. They want the police involved to freeze our shipping docks while the city council reviews our logistics permits. We don't go loud. We go deep."
I held up the satellite phone I had taken from Marco’s corpse. "Marco was supposed to confirm my death tonight. If he doesn't call by five AM, the Morettis will know the hit failed and they'll go into hiding. We use that window."
"How?" Frank asked.
"We feed them the confirmation they want," I smiled, though there was no humor in it. "Frank, clear out the old warehouse on Pier 14. Make it look like a secure safehouse where I’m supposedly hiding out, wounded from an ambush. Let the rumor leak through the usual channels that I survived the attack at the mansion but I'm bleeding out away from my main security detail."
"A honey pot," Frank realized, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "They’ll send their main force to finish the job."
"Exactly. And when they arrive, we lock the doors from the outside," I said. "But before we set the trap, I have one more detail to take care of. I need a specialist."
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I disconnected the call and dialed a private number I hadn't used in over five years—a contact from my days in Europe. An old friend who dealt exclusively in disappearing people who didn't want to be found, and finding people who thought they were invisible.
"Silas," I said when the line connected. "I need you in Chicago by noon. I have a rat problem, and I need a permanent solution that doesn't leave a single trace on the ledger."
