Chapter 8 - The Ghost of ChicagoI quietly transferred our sleeping baby into the hidden wall safe in the nursery—a secondary panic room Adrian had installed specifically for this nightmare scenario—and spun around, locking the steel door behind a decorative wall panel.
I stepped out into the crimson-lit hallway, my pistol raised, ready to kill or die.
As I reached the grand staircase, I saw him standing in the foyer below.
He was a middle-aged man with sharp, aristocratic features, wearing an expensive grey trench coat. In his right hand, he held a cane topped with a solid silver wolf's head—the exact crest of my grandfather's old inner circle.
"Melissa," the man smiled, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming a long-lost niece. "You have your mother’s eyes. And your father’s stubborn, suicidal streak."
"Who the hell are you?" I demanded, aiming the barrel of my gun straight between his eyes from the landing above.
"My name is Julian Vance," the man replied smoothly, taking a slow step toward the stairs. "Or, more accurately... your uncle. The man your father betrayed when he chose to save a stray Moretti boy instead of his own flesh and blood."
The revelation hit me like a physical blow.
"You..." I whispered, my finger twitching on the trigger. "You weren't killed in the purge. You orchestrated it."
"Of course I did," Julian smiled coldly, his eyes dead and empty. "And now, little niece, you are going to hand over the Romano syndicate ledgers, sign over your shares of Adrian’s empire, and help me finish what Vane started."
Before Julian could take another step, a cold, metallic click echoed from the shadows behind him.
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"She’s not giving you a damn thing," a deep, gravelly voice resonated through the foyer.
Adrian stepped out from the hallway leading to the gym. He wasn't in his wheelchair. He was standing on his own two feet, bracing himself against the wall, holding a heavy assault rifle leveled directly at Julian’s chest.
