Chapter 8 - The Ghost of ChicagoThe private hangar at the municipal airfield smelled of aviation fuel, burning rubber, and high-stakes desperation. Outside, a torrential downpour hammered against the corrugated tin roof, turning the tarmac into a mirrored sheet of black water reflecting the stuttering neon lights of the runway.
Edmund stepped down from the black SUV, his long wool coat flaring slightly in the wind. Vivien followed immediately behind him, her dark trench coat belted tightly at her waist, her heels clicking with lethal precision against the concrete.
Waiting by the ramp of a twin-engine Gulfstream G650 was a man who looked like he had been carved out of old granite and bad intentions.
Sal "The Butcher" Maroni was the chief enforcer for the Chicago Outfit—a man whose reputation preceded him like a foul odor through every alley from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic. He stood flanked by four armed guards in identical gray suits, their hands resting casually inside their jackets.
"Costa," Maroni barked over the roar of the rain and jet engines, stepping forward with a slow, heavy swagger. "You're a hard man to schedule a meeting with. Taking down mayors, locking up capos... busy week for a newlywed."
Edmund didn't stop walking until he was three paces from Maroni. His face was a mask of carved ice.
"You sent an amateur to my wedding, Sal," Edmund said, his voice carrying effortlessly over the storm. "A tripod on a bank roof? That’s an insult to my security team."
Maroni chuckled, a dry, grating sound like gravel grinding in a cement mixer. "That wasn't an assassination attempt, Edmund. That was a message. A reminder that your little empire in this city sits on rented ground. And the lease just expired."
"Is that why you flew all the way out here in the middle of the night?" Vivien’s voice cut sharply through the wind as she stepped around Edmund, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her husband. "To deliver an eviction notice in person?"
Maroni’s eyes flicked down to her, a slow, predatory sneer stretching across his scarred mouth. "Well, look at the bride. Trading cards off with your daddy's debts must agree with you. Too bad you'll be a widow before your honeymoon suitcase is unpacked."
Before Maroni could finish the sentence, Vivien moved with blinding speed.
Her hand whipped out from her trench coat, and the heavy brass barrel of a suppressed Walther PPK pressed firmly against the center of Maroni’s forehead.
The four Chicago guards went for their weapons in unison.
Before their fingers could clear their holsters, four laser dots—red as fresh blood—appeared square on their chests.
Tommy Mercer and three of Edmund’s elite snipers, positioned in the rafters above the hangar, had them locked in their crosshairs before they could even draw breath.
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Maroni froze, the mocking sneer instantly dying on his lips. His eyes crossed slightly as he stared down the barrel of Vivien’s gun.
"You're standing on my husband's runway, Mr. Maroni," Vivien whispered, her voice as sweet and deadly as poison. "And in this city, we charge landing fees for outsiders."
