Chapter 7 - The Cleanup
I turned away from Vincent, walking slowly toward the tall windows that looked out over the front courtyard.
The Chicago fog had burned off, replaced by a brilliant, blinding afternoon sun that glittered off the wet gravel.
"Leo," I said without turning around.
"Boss?"
"Put Vincent in the back of the black Lincoln. Drive him to the Cicero rail yard. Lock him in container four-eighteen and ship him to our South American associates in Barranquilla. Let him explain to them why he tried to sell our domestic routes to the DOJ."
Vincent’s face finally lost its arrogant color. "Alessandro, you can't do that! I’m a partner! I’m family!"
"You were family," I said coldly. "Now you’re cargo."
Leo nodded, signaling two guards who stepped forward, hauled Vincent out of the chair by his arms, and dragged him out of the dining room, his protests echoing down the marble hallway until the heavy doors swung shut.
I turned back to face the room.
Vivien was still locked upstairs, waiting for an extradition order to New York that I had already signed and sent to my legal team. Hargrove was on her way to a federal holding facility in downtown Chicago.
The house was being cleaned.
Only Sophia and Emma remained.
Sophia was still standing by the door, her hand resting protectively on Emma’s shoulder. She looked exhausted, pale, and entirely out of place in a room stained by syndicate blood and corporate betrayal.
"You should sit down, Sophia," I said, walking toward her.
"Are we safe?" she asked. Her voice finally broke—just a little—betraying the immense weight of fear she had carried for the last twenty-four hours.
"Yes," I said, stopping a few feet away from her. "The people who brought this into your room are gone. They won't be coming back."
Sophia let out a long, ragged breath, sliding down until she was sitting on the heavy oak bench by the wall, burying her face in her hands. Emma immediately climbed into her lap, wrapping her tiny arms around her mother’s neck, patting her back the way she had seen adults do.
"I’m sorry," Sophia whispered into her hands. "I’m so tired of being afraid."
I stood there for a moment, looking down at the two of them. The man who controlled Chicago’s freight terminals, the man federal prosecutors called a ruthless mafia boss, stood in the center of his ruined dining room and realized he didn't know the first thing about protecting the people who actually mattered.
"You don't have to be afraid anymore," I said, my voice uncharacteristically gentle.
Sophia looked up, her dark eyes searching my face. "What happens now?"
"Now," I said, extending my hand to help her up, "you go back to room twelve, finish your recovery, and let Dr. Sterling finish that IV. And tomorrow, we’re going to have a conversation about your job description."
Sophia took my hand. Her fingers were still warm, but the tremor was gone.
"My job description?" she asked warily.
"Yes," I said, helping her to her feet while Emma clung tightly to her leg. "Head of household administration. With full health benefits, a private apartment on the second floor, and strict orders that no three-year-old child is ever allowed anywhere near an ironing board again."
Sophia stared at me for a long, quiet moment. Then, slowly, a faint, genuine smile touched the corners of her mouth.
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"Does that come with a salary increase?" she asked.
"Double," I said. "And not a single shirt gets ironed until you're back on your feet."
