Chapter 5 - The First ThreatBy Wednesday evening, the illusion of domestic peace was shattered with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
We were in the expansive country kitchen. I had just finished feeding the girls a mountain of chocolate-chip pancakes—which they devoured with absolute glee—when my encrypted satellite phone buzzed violently in my pocket.
I pulled it out, glancing at the scrambled digital display.
It was an alert from Viktor's tactical feed at the front gates.
“Uninvited guest at checkpoint alpha. Refuses to leave. Claims to carry a message from the Chicago Commission.”
I set my fork down slowly, wiping my mouth with a napkin. I looked down at the twins, who were happily coloring in a massive coloring book I had had express-shipped that morning.
"Stay right here, girls," I said softly, patting their heads. "Daddy has to answer the front door for a minute. Don't open it for anyone else, okay?"
"Okay," Ivy chirped, holding up a purple crayon. "I'm coloring a dragon."
"A dragon is good," I smiled, though my eyes hardened as I turned toward the hallway.
I reached into my jacket, pulling out my suppressed Sig Sauer P226, sliding the slide back to chamber a round with a crisp, lethal clack.
I walked through the grand foyer, stepping out onto the sprawling front porch just as the halogen security lights snapped on, illuminating the gravel drive below.
Standing beside a sleek black sedan idling by the gates was a tall, impeccably dressed man in a charcoal suit. He wasn't armed visibly, but his posture reeked of syndicate muscle. It was Marcus Vance—no relation, thankfully—one of Tony Morrelli’s top lieutenants in the Chicago underworld.
"Vance Whitmore!" Marcus called out, raising his hands slightly to show he wasn't holding a weapon, though he looked entirely too smug for someone standing in the crosshairs of a dozen sniper rifles. "Put the popgun away, Boss! I'm just here to talk!"
"You're standing on private property, Marcus," I called back, my voice cutting through the crisp night air like a razor blade. "And you have about ten seconds before my snipers turn your kneecaps into confetti. Make it quick."
Marcus didn't flinch, though a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He knew as well as anyone that I didn't make idle threats.
"The Commission heard rumors, Whitmore!" Marcus shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. "They heard the great and powerful king of Lake Geneva has inherited some cute little baggage! Twins, rumor has it! Daughters of your supposedly dead wife!"
My grip on the pistol tightened until my knuckles turned white.
"Get to the point, Marcus," I snarled.
"The point is simple," Marcus sneered, finding his arrogant footing. "An heir makes you vulnerable. The Commission doesn't want a civil war breaking out because you're distracted by dirty diapers and bedtime stories. Tony Morrelli sends his regards... and a reminder. If you want those little girls to live to see kindergarten, you'll hand over fifty percent of your shipping routes in the Great Lakes by Friday night. Otherwise... accidents happen to families around here. You should know—you wrote the book on them."
Silence descended over the estate, heavy and suffocating.
From the shadows of the porch roof, Viktor emerged silently, his rifle raised and locked onto Marcus's chest. He looked at me, waiting for a single word. Just a twitch of my finger.
I didn't give the order to fire. Not yet.
Instead, a cold, humorless laugh escaped my lips—a dark, echoing sound that made Marcus’s smug grin falter.
"Marcus," I called out softly.
"Yeah?" Marcus barked nervously.
"Tell Tony Morrelli something for me."
"What?"
"Tell him that fifty percent of my shipping routes is a generous offer," I said, stepping forward into the pale moonlight, letting him see the icy fury in my eyes. "So generous, in fact, that I'm going to counter it."
Marcus narrowed his eyes. "What's your counter?"
"By Friday night, I’m not just going to keep my shipping routes," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly, seismic whisper. "I’m going to hunt down every single capo, soldier, and associate connected to the Morrelli family, pull them out of their beds, and dismantle their entire empire piece by bloody piece until there isn't enough left of them to fill a shoebox."
Marcus’s face drained of color. The arrogance vanished instantly, replaced by sheer, primal terror.
"You're insane," Marcus breathed. "You're declaring war on the entire Commission over two brats?"
"They aren't just brats, Marcus," I raised my pistol, aiming it directly at the hood ornament of his car, pulling the trigger.
CRACK.
The bullet punched clean through the silver emblem, shattering it into a thousand metallic shards. Marcus leaped back with a terrified shriek, tripping over his own polished shoes and sprawling backward onto the gravel.
"Tell Tony the clock is ticking," I commanded, lowering the smoking gun. "Now get off my property before I miss the car and hit your skull."
May you like
Without waiting for another word, Marcus scrambled to his feet, threw himself into the sedan, and tore down the driveway at breakneck speed, kicking up a storm of dust and gravel.
I turned around and walked back into the house, my heart pounding with adrenaline. The war had officially begun. And I was going to burn down anyone who dared look at my daughters the wrong way.
