Chapter 3 - The Board of Wolves
At 3:30 AM, the ground-floor library of the DeLuca mansion was thick with cigar smoke and the heavy, oppressive air of old-school Chicago violence.
Three men sat around a massive mahogany table. Salvatore "The Hammer" Rossi, a silver-haired underboss who had served Enzo’s father for thirty years; Frankie "Nails" DeLuca, Enzo’s hot-headed cousin who ran the syndicate's enforcement wing; and Big Mike, a massive, silent man who handled intelligence and surveillance.
Enzo stood at the head of the table. Standing just behind his right shoulder—wrapped in a long, dark wool coat over her sweater, her pale face illuminated by the firelight—was Harper.
Frankie spat into a brass spittoon near his chair, glaring at Harper with deep suspicion. “Enzo, what the hell is this? Why is Whitcomb’s girl in the room? We’re supposed to be discussing how we liquidate her trust fund before the SEC freezes her family assets!”
“Shut your mouth, Frankie,” Enzo snapped.
Frankie blinked, surprised by the sudden lethal edge in his boss's voice.
“We aren't touching her trust fund,” Enzo declared, placing both hands flat on the table. “And if anyone in this room ever addresses my wife with disrespect again, I’ll personally break his jaw.”
Salvatore lowered his cigar, his sharp gray eyes moving from Enzo to Harper. He noticed the way the girl stood—not like a proud socialite, but close to Enzo, subtly seeking the shadow of his massive frame. He also noticed the faint, dark bruise on her temple that no amount of makeup could fully hide.
“Enzo,” Salvatore said slowly, his voice raspy from fifty years of tobacco. “Talk to us. What happened upstairs?”
Enzo didn't offer graphic details. He respected Harper too much to expose her shame to these men. But he gave them the essential truth.
“Preston Whitcomb didn't give us his daughter as a peace offering,” Enzo said. “He dumped an abused witness on our doorstep. He’s been beating her for fifteen years. He used her name to forge loan documents. He used her trust to cover his gambling debts with the outfit in Vegas. And he sent Nathan to his death because Nathan found out about the offshore accounts Preston was using to pay off his enforcers.”
Frankie’s eyes widened. “Nathan knew?”
“Nathan was smart,” Enzo said, his voice thick with emotion. “He didn't just go to collect a debt. He found out Preston was laundering money through a fake charity. Preston panicked, hired those three hitters from the South Side, and had Nathan put down before Nathan could bring the files to me.”
Big Mike reached into his leather coat, pulled out a thick Manila folder, and slid it across the table toward Enzo.
“I ran the background checks on the Whitcomb estate guards like you asked two hours ago,” Big Mike said in a deep, gravelly voice. “Two of those private security guys Preston hired? They aren't licensed guards. They’re former cops disgraced for brutality. They’ve been on Preston’s private payroll for five years. Their only job was keeping the daughter inside the gates and keeping the neighbors from hearing screams.”
The room went completely silent. Even Frankie looked down at the table, a dark flash of disgust crossing his rugged face. In their world, violence was a business tool—used against rivals, traitors, and cops. But hurting women and children was a sin that even the hardest mobsters in Chicago viewed with utter contempt.
Salvatore took a long drag from his cigar, exhaling a plume of blue smoke toward the ceiling.
“So,” the old underboss said quietly. “The target changes.”
“The target doesn't just change,” Enzo said, leaning over the table, his face inches from Salvatore’s. “We aren't going to ruin him financially and let him sit in a comfortable federal prison for five years. We are going to erase him.”
“He’s high profile, Enzo,” Salvatore warned softly, though there was no fear in his eyes—only calculation. “The FBI is watching his house right now. If Preston Whitcomb drops dead tomorrow, the U.S. Attorney is going to look straight at the DeLuca family.”
Harper took a small step forward.
All four men looked at her.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, but she forced her chin up. She thought about the dark room down in the basement of Lake Forest. She thought about her mother’s cold hand in the hospital casket. She thought about Nathan DeLuca—a young man she had never met, who had died because her father was a monster.
“He doesn't keep his real records at the house,” Harper said, her voice surprisingly steady.
Enzo turned his head to look at her, surprised. “Where are they?”
“He has a private vault,” she whispered. “Underneath the boathouse at our summer home in Geneva Lake. He thinks I don't know about it. But when I was sixteen, I hid in the wall space behind the cellar when he was looking for me with... with a belt. I saw him open the floor safe. He keeps duplicate hard drives, offshore encryption keys, and the ledger of everyone he’s ever paid off—including judges, state troopers, and federal agents.”
Frankie let out a long whistle. “Jesus. A hit list and a bank account wrapped in one.”
Harper looked straight into Enzo’s dark eyes.
“If you give me protection,” she said, her voice filled with a cold, desperate resolve that matched Enzo’s own, “I will walk you into that boathouse myself. I will give you everything you need to ruin him, his friends, and his entire legacy. But I want one thing in return.”
Enzo stepped closer to her, his expression softening just a fraction. “Name it.”
“I want to be there,” she whispered, tears finally slipping down her pale cheeks, “when he realizes he lost.”
May you like
Enzo smiled—a dark, terrible, beautiful smile that promised fire and iron. He reached out and gently laid his hand on the back of her neck, his thumb wiping away a single tear.
“Daughter of a bitch,” Enzo murmured softly. “You really are a DeLuca now.”
