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I stepped past the door frame, my leather shoes clicking softly against the linoleum floor. / Chapter 19 / 20

Chapter 19 - The Fire at the Docks

The gunfight was short, brutal, and utterly one-sided.

Vinnie and Dante flanked the Bratva enforcers with terrifying precision, their suppressed submachine guns cutting down the Russian hitters before they could even find cover. Within thirty seconds, four of Rostov’s men were disarmed and pinned to the gravel, their weapons kicked away into the weeds.

Viktor Rostov scrambled behind the rusted iron hull of an overturned boxcar, clutching a heavy-caliber submachine gun, breathing heavily, his face slick with sweat and rage.

“Gallo!” Rostov screamed over the din of the wind. “You think you’ve won? I have spotters outside your North Side estate right now! Even if you kill me, your wife and kid are already dead!”

A cold, lethal calm washed over me. I walked slowly toward his cover, keeping my pistol raised and steady.

“You’re lying, Viktor,” I said, my voice cutting through the dark. “Because if you had spotters at my house, you would know one very important thing about my security.”

Rostov peeked around the edge of the boxcar, his eyes wide. “What are you talking about?”

“My wife isn't just a cleaning girl,” I said, stepping closer. “And my estate isn't just a house. It’s an armed fortress. And the people I left in charge know how to handle garbage like your spotters.”

As if on cue, my secure radio buzzed against my chest.

Vinnie’s voice crackled through the earpiece, calm and triumphant: “Boss? Two Bratva scouts tried to scale the North Side perimeter wall about three minutes ago. Dante’s detail caught them in the rose garden. They’re currently tied up and waiting in the garage. No shots fired. The house is secure.”

Rostov’s face drained of all color. He realized the trap had sprung, and he was the one caught in the jaws.

With a roar of blind panic, Rostov leaped up from behind the boxcar, swinging his submachine gun toward my chest.

He didn't get the chance to pull the trigger.

THIP.

My 9mm round caught him squarely in the right shoulder, spinning him violently around and sending his weapon clattering across the gravel. Before he could hit the ground, I closed the distance, grabbed him by the heavy gold chain around his neck, and slammed him hard against the rusted iron side of the railcar.

Rostov gasped for air, blood bubbling on his lips, staring up at me with sheer, unadulterated terror.

“Please...” he choked out. “Spare me... we can make a deal—”

“There are no deals with men who threaten my family, Viktor,” I said, my voice dead, quiet, and final.

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The November wind bit hard against my face, tearing through my thin wool sweater as I sat on the frozen limestone steps of the Peterson brownstone. In my arms, Lily shivered, her small, frightened breaths puffing little clouds of white mist into the dark Chicago air.

The November wind bit hard against my face, tearing through my thin wool...

The screech of the chopper’s rotor blades vibrated directly through the freezing slate beneath my spine. The blinding white vortex of snow kicked up by the downdraft burned my eyes, but I forced my lids open, locking my gaze onto the amber visor of the rescue specialist dropping out of the sky.

The screech of the chopper’s rotor blades vibrated directly through the...

Daniel stepped toward the bed, his polished leather shoes squeaking against the pristine hospital linoleum. He reached for the tray table, his fingers brushing the edge of the papers. His voice was low, coated in a practiced, corporate calm that made my stomach churn worse than the spiked blood pressure.

Daniel stepped toward the bed, his polished leather shoes squeaking agai...

I pressed the barrel of my pistol firmly against his forehead.

“Welcome to Chicago,” I whispered.

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