Chapter 8 - THE GHOST OF ASHLAND AVENUEThree days later, the rain finally cleared, leaving behind a crisp, biting Chicago autumn wind.
The Caldwell mansion was quiet again. The shattered windows had been temporarily boarded up, the bullet holes patched, and the blood washed from the marble floors.
Down in the concrete bunker, Grant Holloway sat alone in the dark, chained to the same metal chair. The door clicked open. A beam of harsh light cut across the floor as Nathan rolled in, flanked by Viktor.
Nathan stopped a few feet away, looking at the man who had been his brother for fifteen years.
"The North Side syndicate is leaderless," Nathan said quietly. "Marcone is buried in an unmarked grave by the river. And the federal package you threatened me with? My tech team traced the physical backup drive to your safety deposit box at the Swiss Bank downtown. It’s been wiped clean."
Grant raised his head, his face bruised and pale, laughing weakly. "So... what now? You going to put a bullet in my head and dump me in Lake Michigan?"
"No," Nathan said, his expression completely unreadable. "A bullet is too quick. Too merciful."
Nathan gestured to Viktor. The enforcer stepped forward, unclipped Grant’s handcuffs, and yanked him roughly to his feet.
"We’re putting you on a private cargo flight tonight," Nathan continued, rolling his chair closer. "One-way ticket to a maximum-security penal colony in South America. No guards you know, no money to bribe your way out, and no name. You’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if every shadow you see is an assassin I sent to finish the job."
Grant’s face drained of all color. He opened his mouth to scream, to curse, to beg, but Viktor shoved a thick gag into his mouth and dragged him backward toward the elevator.
As the heavy metal doors closed on Grant’s terrified eyes for the last time, Nathan sat alone in the quiet bunker.
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He felt a profound, heavy emptiness.
The war was won. The traitors were gone. But the house felt colder than ever.
