Chapter 13 - THE GHOST FROM THE SYNDICATE WARSThe name hung in the air like ozone before a lightning strike.
Julian Vance.
Long before Matteo Marquez earned the title of the Black Lion in Chicago, the European syndicates answered to Vance—a cold, calculating mastermind based out of London and Geneva who viewed organized crime not as a street enterprise, but as corporate geopolitics. When Vance mysteriously vanished from the underworld map five years ago, everyone assumed he had been betrayed and buried beneath the English Channel.
“Vance is dead,” Matteo stated flatly, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “I personally audited his exit from the board in Zurich.”
“Bodies have a frustrating habit of crawling out of shallow graves when billions of dollars are left uncollected,” Dante countered, sliding the tablet closer across the Formica table. The screen displayed a live location tracker pinging from a luxury penthouse suite in Manhattan. “He didn't die, Matteo. He went deep underground, waiting for you to walk away from the throne. Now that he sees the Marquez family trust sitting unguarded while you play suburban diner keeper... he’s making his move.”
Lena looked between the two men, a cold dread coiling in her stomach. For three years, she had believed the nightmares were locked away in the past. She had washed the blood from her hands and built a life of simple, honest work. But looking at Matteo’s face—the absolute, icy focus returning to his eyes like steel hardening in a forge—she realized the illusion of safety had shattered.
“He wants the territory back,” Lena whispered.
“He wants everything,” Dante corrected quietly. “And worse—he knows where you are.”
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Matteo slowly stood up from the booth. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his silver pocket watch, popped it open, and snapped it shut. The crisp click echoed like a pistol slide across the empty diner.
“Dante,” Matteo said, his voice smooth as glass and sharp as a razor. “Book a private flight from the municipal airstrip. We’re going to Manhattan.”
