Chapter 5 - BLOOD IN THE SHADOWS
The darkness of the parking garage was suffocating, broken only by the pulsing green and red LEDs of the armored SUVs' emergency dashboards.
Grace felt Adrian’s arm instantly wrap around her waist, wrenching her behind his broad frame. In his other hand, the heavy steel of his Kimber 1911 snapped up, pointed directly into the void where the voice had originated.
"Matteo," Adrian said, his voice flat, devoid of surprise, chilled to sub-zero temperatures. "You had your pet cousin deliver the formal greetings while you crawled through the sewers like the rat you are."
A sharp click echoed off the concrete pillars, and a spotlight mounted on a distant pillar flared to life, blinding Grace for a terrifying second.
When her eyes adjusted, her knees nearly buckled.
Standing thirty yards away, surrounded by ten men armed with submachine guns, was Matteo Rossi. He wore a pristine white camel-hair coat draped over his shoulders, his slick black hair combed back with pomade, and his thin, cruel mouth curled into a sadistic grin. In his left hand, he twirled a heavy silver signet ring—the very ring that had haunted Grace’s nightmares every night for eighteen months.
"Graziella," Matteo cooed, ignoring Adrian entirely. "You look stunning in that dress, darling. Far better than you did in those peasant rags you wore when you stole from my father’s vault. Did you really think you could play house with the Chicago mob and I wouldn't track the bank pings the moment this fool dropped three grand into your little waitress hands?"
Grace pressed her face against Adrian’s shoulder blade, nausea rising in her throat. Adrian had used marked bills. Or rather, his underboss had. Her cover hadn't just been cracked; it had been a beacon.
"She doesn't belong to you, Rossi," Adrian said, his voice steady as iron. "And she certainly isn't leaving this garage with you."
"Adrian, Adrian," Matteo chuckled, taking a slow, mocking step forward. His men raised their weapons, red laser dots dancing across Adrian’s chest and throat. "Check your phone, my friend. While we've been chatting, my men hit your lakefront compound. Your precious docks are burning. Your underboss is bleeding out in a ditch on Lake Shore Drive. You have no reinforcements coming. Hand the girl over with the cryptographic keys, and I let you die with your family intact. Keep her, and I skin her alive while you watch."
Grace felt Adrian’s muscles bunch beneath his tuxedo jacket. She knew the arithmetic of violence; she had grown up in it. Ten automatic weapons versus Adrian and his two surviving bodyguards. The math was suicide.
"Adrian," she whispered, her voice trembling against his ear. "Let me walk over. The moment I distract him, take his head. Don't die for me."
Adrian didn't look back, but his left hand reached behind his hip, finding her fingers and crushing them in a fierce, furious grip. "Shut up," he hissed under his breath. "I don't trade my family. Ever."
Adrian raised his voice, clear and resonant in the concrete chamber. "You think you came prepared, Matteo? You think I let a Camorra bastard step onto Illinois soil without knowing the tail number of your private jet?"
Adrian raised his left hand, tapping the air three times.
From the upper ramps of the parking structure, heavy diesel engines roared to life. Four massive municipal dump trucks—vehicles controlled by the Moretti-aligned city unions—slammed down the concrete inclines, their steel plows screeching against the asphalt as they completely blocked every exit route, boxing Matteo’s convoy into a concrete kill box.
From behind the truck beds, dozens of Chicago soldiers rose up, their rifles leveled directly down at Matteo’s men.
Matteo’s arrogant smile vanished, his face draining of color. "You crazy bastard—"
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"Fire," Adrian whispered.
The garage erupted into an apocalyptic storm of gunfire.
