Chapter 3 - Ambush at the Drake
The black Mercedes Maybach tore through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago like a missile. Dante sat in the passenger seat, barking orders into a encrypted satellite phone in rapid Italian, his tone clipped, vicious, and utterly devoid of hesitation.
"Enzo, cordon off the north side of the block. If that Navigator moves before we reach the curb, take out the tires. No gunfire unless they pull iron first. There’s a civilian child inside that residence. If a single stray bullet hits that second floor, I will personally hang you from the Michigan Avenue bridge."
I sat in the back, my nails digging half-moons into the leather upholstery, my eyes glued to the digital clock on the dashboard.
*3:14 PM.*
Leo would be waking up from his nap. He would want his warm milk. He would want his stuffed velvet rabbit that Mia had bought him for his second birthday. He didn't know what a syndicate was. He didn't know that his mother had fled across an ocean to protect him from men who settled debts with lead and fire.
"Dante, please," I whispered, the hatred completely drained from my voice, leaving only raw terror. "Just get him out. Don't let them touch him."
Dante didn't turn around, but his eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. The cold fury that usually resided there softened for an instant, replaced by a fierce, ancient promise.
"Nobody touches what is mine, Elena," he said quietly. "Nobody."
When the Maybach screeched to a halt at the intersection of Webster and Lincoln, the street looked deceptively normal. Leaves danced in the gutters. A woman pushed a stroller under a red umbrella. But then I saw the subtle violence woven into the fabric of the neighborhood.
Two black SUVs were already parked bumper-to-bumper behind the suspicious Navigator, effectively boxing it in. Three men in long trench coats stood casually on the corner, their right hands buried deep inside their pockets.
"Stay in the car," Dante commanded, unbuttoning his overcoat. Beneath it, holstered snugly against his ribs, was a matte-black semi-automatic.
"I am not staying in the car while my son is in that building!" I yelled, reaching for the door handle.
Before I could pull the latch, child-safety locks engaged with a heavy *clack*.
"Marcus," Dante told the driver, his voice steady as granite. "If she touches that door, lock her hands to the seatbelt. If anyone approaches this vehicle who isn't me, put a bullet through the glass and drive straight to the safehouse."
"Understood, Boss."
"Dante, no! Let me go!" I screamed, banging my fist against the bulletproof partition.
Dante stepped out into the pouring rain without an umbrella, slamming the heavy door behind him. I watched through the rain-streaked window as he walked down the sidewalk. He didn't run. He walked with that slow, predatory stride that had terrified Chicago’s underworld for over a decade.
He didn't even look at the men in the Navigator. He simply snapped his fingers.
In an instant, the three men in trench coats converged on the Navigator. The doors were ripped open, weapons were drawn and pressed against temples, and the two Romano operatives were dragged face-down onto the wet asphalt before they could even draw a breath. It was executed with such terrifying, silent precision that the woman with the stroller fifty feet away didn't even turn her head.
Dante didn't stop to watch. He took the steps of Mia’s brownstone three at a time, kicking the front door open with a thunderous splintering of wood.
Two minutes passed. Every second felt like a drop of boiling oil on my bare heart.
Then, the front door opened again.
Dante emerged. In his arms, wrapped in a bright yellow rain poncho, was Leo.
My son’s little arms were looped tightly around Dante’s neck. His small face, completely unbothered by the chaos, was buried in Dante’s shoulder, his wide gray eyes staring out at the rain with curious wonder. Dante had his coat held open, shielding Leo’s small body from the cold wind, his massive hand cradling the back of Leo’s head with a gentleness I hadn't seen in him since the day my father died.
The driver unlocked the Maybach’s doors. I threw myself out into the downpour, stumbling onto the wet sidewalk.
"Leo!"
"Mommy!" Leo’s little voice piped up over the sound of the rain.
I reached for him, but Dante didn't simply hand him over. He pulled me into his chest along with our son, using his broad shoulders to shield both of us from the street, his arm wrapping around my waist like an iron band. For a fraction of a second, the three of us were pressed together—a family formed in secret, reunited in violence.
"He's fine," Dante whispered against my wet hair. "He didn't see anything. Mia is inside with two of my guards; she’s packing your passports."
"Give him to me," I sobbed, pulling Leo out of his grasp.
I clutched my son to my chest, burying my face in his neck, inhaling the sweet, powdery scent of lavender and baby soap. Leo patted my wet cheek with his tiny, sticky hand.
"Mommy, the big man has a shiny watch," Leo announced proudly, pointing a chubby finger at Dante’s wrist. "He said he’s taking us to see the fishes."
I looked up at Dante through my tears. His expression was unrecognizable. The ruthless mob boss who had just ordered two men pinned to the street was staring at the little boy in my arms with a look of pure, unadulterated awe. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached out and touched Leo’s cheek with the back of his index finger.
"Get in the car," Dante said, his voice husky. "We can't stay here. Silvio Romano’s main compound is already mobilizing."
Before we could climb back into the Maybach, however, the screech of tires echoed down the block. A sleek, cream-colored Porsche Panamera drifted around the corner and slammed to a halt directly in front of our car, blocking the lane.
The driver’s door opened. A woman stepped out, holding an ivory designer umbrella over her immaculate, honey-blonde hair. She wore an emerald-green cashmere trench coat, five-inch Louboutin heels, and diamond studs that caught the dim gray light of the storm.
May you like
My sister.
Victoria Carter-Moretti looked at the scene: the pinned Romano operatives on the asphalt, Dante’s armed guards, and finally, her eyes locked onto me, standing
