Chapter 4 - The Rot WithinI didn't turn around. I couldn't.
The cold circle of the gun barrel pressed firmly against my spine through the fabric of my suit jacket. The silence in the room grew heavy, suffocating, broken only by the erratic beeping of the heart monitor and the steady, artificial hum of the IV pump.
“It’s a neat trick, isn't it?” Marco’s voice sounded different. The warmth, the deference, the lifelong loyalty he had faked for fifteen years had completely vanished, replaced by a hollow, chilling indifference.
“Marco,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “You were the first man I put in the chair at Bellanova. I gave you my father’s signet ring when your brother was buried.”
“And you gave my orders to men who didn't respect me, Dante,” Marco replied, stepping closer, the muzzle of the gun shifting slightly against my back. “You think because you rule the syndicate like a god that everyone around you is content being a disciple? Some of us want to sit at the head of the table.”
Alan Vance pushed gently against my chest, his hands now clean of blood. I didn't resist; I let him slide out of my grasp, stepping back while keeping my eyes locked on both of them.
“It’s amazing what a little financial incentive can do,” Alan said, adjusting his lab coat cuffs. “Marco realized months ago that your empire was rotting from the top down. You’ve gone soft, Dante. You let sentimentality creep into your decisions. You stopped the expansion into the docks because you were too busy checking daily observation reports on a woman who didn't even want you anymore.”
“She was my wife,” I said.
“She was a liability,” Marco snapped, stepping into my field of vision. His face was twisted into a bitter, ugly grimace. “And now she’s a vessel. Julian gets his marrow match, Alan gets his research grant, and I get the North Side territory free and clear of Moretti oversight.”
“You think Julian will let you live once the transfer is done?” I asked, my voice cutting through the room like a scalpel. “You think a man like Vance leaves loose ends in his own house? He’ll feed you to the FBI before the week is out, Marco.”
Marco’s eyes flickered with a brief, nervous flash of doubt, but he quickly hardened his expression, leveling the pistol straight at my chest. “Shut up.”
“He’s right, you know,” a new voice echoed from the doorway.
We all whipped our heads toward the hall.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, twirling a silver lighter between his fingers, was Vincenzo Russo—my oldest captain, the man who had sat across from me at the private dining table just an hour ago, demanding I attend the dock shipments.
Vincenzo stepped into the room, stepping over the threshold with the heavy, unhurried gait of an executioner.
“Vincenzo,” I said, genuinely surprised for the first time tonight. “You?”
“Not me, Dante. All of us,” Vincenzo sighed, shaking his head with mock sorrow. “The entire council, save for a few stubborn old loyalists who will be handled by midnight. You’ve been running Chicago like a feudal king for twenty years, Dante. The world changed. Corporate syndicates don't need a tyrant with a bleeding heart. They need efficiency.”
He walked over to the bed, looking down at Elena’s pale face with cold, clinical detachment.
“Shame about the girl. She really was too good for you, Dante. But collateral damage is the cost of doing business,” Vincenzo said, looking back up at me with a thin smile. “And now, you get to watch everything you built burn to the ground, starting with your legacy.”
May you like
Vincenzo reached out his hand toward the IV pole, his fingers curling around the dial of the blood bag.
“Let’s see how much of your empire you can save while your wife bleeds out on the floor.”
