Chapter 6 - The Viper's Retribution
Three months passed in a cold, brutal Chicago blur.
The snow had melted into the gray slush of early spring, and Keo was out of isolation, sitting in a wheelchair by the hospital window, his hair slowly growing back in soft, dark curls. Linda was by his side every single day, no longer carrying the hunted, desperate look of a drowning woman, but the steady, fierce grace of a mother who had stared down the abyss and won.
In my world, however, vacuums never remained empty for long.
When Vincent Maroni Jr. fled to South America, he left behind a fractured empire—a sprawling syndicate of illicit docks, underground gambling dens, and protection rackets scattered across the South Side. Like starving wolves scenting blood in the snow, rival factions immediately began circling the wreckage, eager to carve up Maroni’s territory.
And at the center of the feeding frenzy stood a man named Dominic Vance.
Vance was Maroni’s former underboss—a cold-blooded pragmatist who had stayed behind while Maroni ran. Unlike his former boss, Vance wasn't flashy, and he wasn't reckless. He was patient, methodical, and bitterly resentful of the way I had dismantled Maroni’s financial foundation overnight.
He knew he couldn't beat the Gallo family in an outright war. So, he decided to strike where he thought my armor was softest.
It was a Thursday afternoon when Vinnie burst into my study without knocking, his face grim and pale.
“Boss,” he said, slamming a heavy manila envelope onto my desk. “We got a problem.”
I didn't look up from the document I was signing. “Define problem.”
“It’s not about the ports, and it’s not about the distribution lines,” Vinnie growled, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the desk. “It’s about Linda.”
My pen stopped moving instantly.
The silence in the room became absolute, heavy enough to crush bone. I looked up slowly, my eyes locking onto Vinnie’s.
“Explain,” I said, voice dangerously low.
“Vance knows about the hospital transfer. He knows you funded the boy’s cancer treatment,” Vinnie said, running a hand over his shaved head. “He figured out that the cleaning girl you kept under your roof wasn't just staff—she was the catalyst that brought Maroni down. And he figures if he takes the boy, he has a leash around your neck.”
The temperature in the room dropped below freezing.
“Where is she?” I asked, standing up so fast my leather chair screeched against the floor.
“She and Keo left Northwestern Memorial an hour ago for a routine follow-up checkup at a private clinic on the West Side,” Vinnie said, pulling a secondary slip of paper from his pocket. “Their transport never made it. The driver’s phone is dead, and the van was found abandoned two blocks off Ashland Avenue.”
For three seconds, I didn't breathe.
All the careful walls I had built around myself—the cold calculus of power, the iron discipline of a syndicate boss—shattered into a million jagged pieces.
Maroni had tried to use a dying boy and failed. Vance thought he could finish the job by taking a mother and child hostage to force my hand.
They had crossed the line. Not just the line of business, but the line of blood.
“Vinnie,” I said, my voice dead, quiet, and terrifyingly calm.
“Boss?”
“Call Luca and Dante. Tell them to bring the heavy gear. And tell the boys at the docks to shut down every single exit route out of the West Side.”
“Where are we going?”
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I reached behind the oil painting, popped open the heavy steel wall safe, and pulled out a matte-black Sig Sauer P226, checking the magazine with a sharp, metallic click before sliding it into my shoulder holster.
“We’re going to remind Dominic Vance why ghosts stay buried,” I said, buttoning my coat. “And then we’re going to burn his world to ash.”
