Chapter 2 - THE HEDGE BLEEDS REDThe morning sun hit the trimmed privet hedge with a harsh, glaring brilliance that mocked the violence brewing underneath.
Maya came through the gap at precisely 3:30 PM, her oversized coat dragging slightly in the damp winter mud. But today, Tommy Reyes wasn't right behind her. As she stepped onto the back lawn, she didn't see the sparkling diamond or hear the satisfying crack of a baseball against wood.
Instead, she saw three black-suited men standing on the porch, arguing in hushed, violent tones.
At the center of them was Marcus Vance. His silver-threaded suit was immaculate, but his face was twisted into a mask of cold fury. He was gripping Elena Harper by the forearm, his fingers digging deep enough to turn her skin white.
"I don't care what the old man said, Elena," Marcus hissed, leaning in close so his voice wouldn't carry across the estate grounds. "The board meeting is in three hours. If Luca isn't wheeled into that room looking like a vegetable signing over his shares, you and your little bastard child are out on the street tonight. And believe me, the Chicago winter is unforgiving to squatters."
Maya stopped dead in her tracks. Her small hands curled into tight fists inside her giant pockets.
"Let go of my mom," Maya yelled, her voice cutting through the crisp air like a jagged piece of glass.
Marcus turned his head slowly. His eyes locked onto the little girl, a cruel, predatory smirk spreading across his thin lips. "Ah, the stray cat. Tell me, kid, does your mother teach you manners, or do you just scavenge them from the garbage bins?"
Elena struggled against his grip, tears pooling in her eyes. "Marcus, leave her out of this! This is between you and Luca!"
"Luca is irrelevant," Marcus sneered, taking a step toward Maya. "He’s a ghost in a chair. A broken-down cripple who hasn't run a damn thing since the Clinton administration."
"Is that right, Marcus?"
The voice didn't come from the wheelchair on the porch.
It came from the French doors of the study, standing wide open.
Marcus froze. The two bodyguards stiffened, their hands instantly dropping toward their holstered sidearms.
Luca Costello stepped out onto the porch.
He wasn't in the wheelchair. He was standing tall—all six feet two of him—wearing a heavy wool overcoat, his shoulders squared, his eyes fixed on Marcus with the terrifying, predatory calm of a wolf that had spent a decade playing dead to watch the pack expose themselves.
Marcus let go of Elena as if his hands had caught fire. Color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse dug up from a shallow grave.
May you like
"L-Luca..." Marcus stammered, taking an involuntary step back. "You... you're..."
"Standing?" Luca finished for him, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that echoed across the estate. "Surprised, brother? Or did you honestly think a twelve-year poison drip could keep an apex predator down forever?"
