Chapter 2 - THE WOLF AT THE GATESThe corridor outside the interrogation room erupted into chaos.
Heavy, synchronized boots thudded against the linoleum floor. Shouted orders, the frantic rattling of handcuffs, and the distinct, chilling sound of safety catches clicking off on submachine guns echoed through the concrete halls.
Detective Santos didn’t even flinch. She shoved the photographs back into a Manila folder, slapped a heavy magnetic lock over the metal table, and stood up, her hand resting instinctively on the butt of her service weapon.
"Stay in this chair, Elena," Santos commanded, her eyes blazing. "If Adrian Valente sets foot in here and tries to play judge, jury, and executioner, he’ll have to go through the Chicago Police Department first."
"He doesn't care about the police, Detective," I choked out, tears stinging my eyes as the terrifying image of Clara in that photograph burned into my brain. "If he thinks my sister tried to kill his daughter, he won't just kill her. He’ll take everything. He’ll tear our lives apart."
The door didn't just open; it was violently kicked inward, splintering the heavy wooden frame and sending dust dancing in the fluorescent light.
Dante stepped through first. The towering, immaculately dressed right-hand man of the Valente syndicate scanned the room in a single, lethal sweep. Behind him strode Adrian Valente.
The crime boss looked like a statue carved from obsidian and pure rage. His eyes were cold, dark, and utterly devoid of human mercy. The faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of approaching violence filled the cramped room.
"Detective Santos," Adrian said, his voice a low, vibrating baritone that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "Step aside. I’m taking the prisoner."
"You’re out of your jurisdiction, Valente," Santos fired back, stepping directly between Adrian and me. "This is a municipal holding facility. You don't walk in here and take anyone."
Adrian didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. He simply raised his right hand, and three armed men in black tactical gear stepped past Dante, leveling automatic rifles straight at Santos's chest.
"Jurisdiction," Adrian murmured, a cruel, mirthless smile touching the corner of his mouth, "is a polite fiction agreed upon by men who haven't lost a child. My daughter is fighting for her life in a private ICU. Her nanny confessed an hour ago. And the trail of conspiracy leads straight to this girl—and someone very close to her."
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Adrian turned his obsidian gaze directly onto me.
"Bring her," he ordered Dante. "We are going to have a family reunion. And we are going to find out why your little sister wanted my baby dead."
