Chapter 6 - The Confession in Cicero
The basement of the Bolaro family’s industrial complex in Cicero smelled of old limestone, wet earth, and rust.
Vittorio Bolaro was tied to a heavy oak chair in the center of the concrete floor, illuminated by a single overhead bulb hanging from a frayed wire. His tailored suit was ripped at the shoulders, his face bruised from Marcus’s initial interrogation, but his eyes still burned with defiant, bitter hatred.
The heavy steel door at the top of the stairs creaked open.
Roman walked down the steps slowly, his leather shoes clicking against the wet floor. Behind him walked three of his oldest, most ruthless captains—men who had served Roman’s father thirty years prior.
Vittorio spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete as Roman stopped two feet away from him.
"Look at the king," Vittorio sneered, his voice raspy and wet. "Comes to inspect his work. You think you've won, Roman? You think killing me fixes your broken house?"
Roman picked up a wooden chair from the corner, reversed it, and sat down directly across from his cousin. He rested his forearms on the wooden backrest, his expression utterly placid.
"I don't want to kill you yet, Vittorio," Roman said smoothly. "I want to hear why. You were my blood. When my father died, I gave you thirty percent of the port operations. When Lucia died, I gave you control of the security council. What wasn't enough?"
Vittorio laughed—a harsh, dark sound that echoed off the damp limestone walls.
"Thirty percent?!" Vittorio roared, straining against the heavy nylon ropes binding his wrists. "I was older than you, Roman! My father was the elder brother! By rights of the old code, the Bolaro syndicate belonged to MY branch of the family!"
"Your father was a gambler who sold our family's union concessions to the syndicate in Detroit," Roman said coldly. "He was weak. My father rebuilt what yours destroyed."
"Your father was a tyrant!" Vittorio spat. "And you're no better! You married a civilian! A schoolteacher! You brought her into our world, gave her our name, and planned to hand the entire empire over to her brat while I did the dirty work in the streets!"
Roman watched him quietly, letting his cousin’s venom fill the room.
"Who helped you with the bomb, Vittorio?" Roman asked.
Vittorio’s laughter died instantly. A dark, triumphant smirk spread across his face.
"You think I did that alone?" Vittorio whispered, leaning forward as far as his ropes allowed. "You think a hospital doctor and an underboss could pull off a hit on your armored motorcade at high noon?"
Roman’s eyes narrowed. "Give me the name."
"The Commission," Vittorio hissed. "The five families of New York. They didn't want a united Midwest under your thumb, Roman. They wanted Chicago fractured. They funded the plastic explosives. They paid Dr. Sloan’s offshore accounts three years ago to ensure that when Lucia got pregnant, there would be a protocol in place to extract the child."
Roman didn't flinch, but behind him, his three captains shifted uncomfortably, exchanging dark, alarmed glances. A war with the New York families meant blood in the streets across three states.
"So the bomb wasn't meant to kill Nico," Roman realized softly. "It was meant to force the emergency delivery."
"Lucia was collateral damage," Vittorio said coldly, without a trace of remorse. "She wasn't supposed to die on the pavement, but the blast was too close. The baby survived, which was all we needed. Sloan took him during the chaos of the transfer, replaced him with a dying street infant from his clinic, and we waited for you to wither away from grief."
Vittorio leaned in closer, his dark eyes fixed on Roman’s face.
"You were supposed to break, Roman," Vittorio whispered. "You were supposed to hand the keys to me on day twenty, sign the corporate proxies, and put a bullet in your own head beside Lucia’s grave. That was the plan. And it would have worked..."
Vittorio’s jaw tightened with pure, unadulterated venom.
"...if that damned nurse hadn't looked at his fucking toes."
Roman stood up slowly. He pulled his silver pocket watch from his vest, checked the time—11:45 AM—and placed it back.
"You underestimated two things, Vittorio," Roman said quietly.
"What's that?" Vittorio spat.
"You underestimated the strength of my wife’s love," Roman said, stepping closer. "And you underestimated the instincts of a woman who protects children for a living."
Roman turned his back on his cousin and walked toward the stairs.
"Roman! Wait!" Vittorio screamed, panic suddenly breaking through his arrogant facade as Marcus stepped forward from the shadows, drawing a long, thin steel blade. "Roman! We're blood! You can't leave me to the dogs! ROMAN!"
Roman didn't look back. He opened the steel door at the top of the stairs, stepped out into the clean afternoon air, and closed the door behind him.
The scream that followed was cut short by the heavy stone wall.
May you like
Roman pulled out his phone and dialed Marcus’s secondary line.
"Send ten teams to New York," Roman ordered, his voice cold enough to freeze the sun. "Tell the bosses of the five families that Roman Bolaro is coming to collect his debt."
