Chapter 17 - The Shadow of the Past
Summer in Chicago arrived with a suffocating, humid heat that baked the asphalt and turned the city into a shimmering mirage of exhaust fumes and restless energy.
Our life inside the North Side estate had settled into a rhythm I never could have imagined for myself. Keo was thriving, his medical checkups coming back clean month after month, running around the courtyard with a boundless energy that finally matched his age. Linda managed the estate not as an employee, but as its undisputed heart, transforming the cold, intimidating fortress into a real home.
Yet, in my world, peace was always a fragile illusion.
It was a stifling Thursday evening when Vinnie came pounding on the heavy oak study door without waiting for an answer. He burst into the room, wiping sweat from his forehead, holding a secure encrypted tablet in his hand.
“Boss,” Vinnie panted, his face unusually grim. “We have an issue. A big one.”
I didn't look up from the book I was reading with Keo. I marked the page, closed it gently, and turned my full attention to my enforcer.
“Talk,” I commanded.
“Remember Viktor Rostov?” Vinnie asked, tapping the screen of the tablet.
My eyes narrowed instantly. Viktor Rostov was a ruthless Bratva boss from the Brighton Beach syndicate in New York—a man whose brutality made the Maronis look like amateur playground bullies. Years ago, before I consolidated power in Chicago, Rostov and I had crossed paths over a contested smuggling corridor in the Midwest. We had reached a cold, armed stalemate, and Rostov had retreated back east licking his wounds.
“What about him?” I asked, standing up from my desk.
“He didn't disappear, Boss,” Vinnie said grimly. “He went underground. And according to our contacts in federal intelligence, Rostov just touched down in O’Hare private aviation twenty minutes ago.”
“Why would Rostov fly into Chicago?” I asked, pacing toward the window that overlooked the quiet courtyard where Linda and Keo were laughing by the fountain.
“Because of the Taylor Street real estate deed,” Vinnie said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “The property you signed over to Linda six months ago? It used to belong to a front corporation controlled by Rostov’s Chicago proxies back in the nineties. He’s back to reclaim his territory. And he knows exactly who owns it now.”
A cold, familiar fury ignited deep in my chest.
They thought they could touch my family. They thought a Russian mobster could walk into my city and take what was mine.
“Vinnie,” I said softly, my voice dropping an octave into absolute, lethal calm.
May you like
“Boss?”
“Call Dante. Tell the boys to arm up and lock down the perimeter gates.” I reached behind the oil painting, popped open the heavy steel wall safe, and pulled out my Sig Sauer P226, sliding an extra magazine into my breast pocket. “Let’s go show Viktor Rostov how we welcome visitors to Chicago.”
