Chapter 17 - The Shadow at O'Hare

The private jet sat on the tarmac of the private aviation terminal at O'Hare, its twin jet engines humming a low, steady tune. The pilot—a quiet man in a dark suit—held the mobile stairs steady for us as we walked across the wet asphalt.

“Get comfortable, Mrs. Bell,” the pilot said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “Flight time to Zurich is approximately eight hours.”

I nodded, guiding a sleepy Amara up the metal steps and into the plush leather interior of the cabin. The cabin was luxurious, paneled in dark mahogany and brushed steel, with bottles of expensive champagne chilling in silver buckets.

Something felt wrong.

The pilot hadn't asked for our identification. He hadn't checked our clearance codes. In the Valente organization, security protocols were absolute—even for departures.

I gently sat Amara down on a cream-leather couch and turned around to exit the cabin.

Before I could reach the door, a heavy metallic click echoed through the aisle.

The cabin door slammed shut from the outside, sealing with an airtight hiss.

“Hey! Let us out!” I shouted, banging my hands against the reinforced glass window of the hatch.

Inside the cockpit, the pilot’s seat spun around.

May you like

The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled...

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me...

The kitchen was so quiet you could hear the distant murmur of the jazz t...

It wasn't one of Roman’s men. It was a man with a sharp scar running down his left cheek, wearing a black trench coat bearing an insignia I had never seen before—a silver dagger entwined with an olive branch.

The Italian Commission’s internal enforcement division.