Chapter 6 - The Retaliation
The underworld of the Midwest was a fragile ecosystem, and Vincent Moretti had just dropped a bomb into the center of it.
By 2:00 AM, the reports began flooding into Vincent’s phone as he sat in the back of his Mercedes, driving back to Lake Forest. Donald Vance’s organization in Detroit was imploding in a spectacular display of internal violence. Two of his main warehouses had been set on fire by his own captains, and Vance himself had fled his suburban mansion in a panic, pursued by the very mercenaries he had once hired to protect him.
“He’s on the run, Boss,” Luca reported from the driver’s seat, looking at the rearview mirror. “But Tommy’s tracking his cell phone signal. He’s not heading north toward Canada. He’s heading west. On Interstate 94.”
Vincent narrowed his eyes, staring out at the dark, wet asphalt stretching ahead of them. “He’s desperate. A desperate man doesn't think logically; he thinks about revenge. He knows he’s ruined in Detroit. He thinks if he can come to Chicago, kill Clara, and take you out, he can somehow bargain his way back into the syndicate’s good graces.”
“He’s coming here?” Luca asked, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
“He’s coming for the estate,” Vincent said calmly. “He thinks he has nothing left to lose. Tell the perimeter teams to prepare. If Donald Vance wants to commit suicide, we should provide him with the appropriate venue.”
Back at the Lake Forest estate, Clara couldn't sleep. She sat by the grand French windows of her second-floor bedroom, watching the rain lash against the glass. The house was beautiful, filled with priceless art and ancient tapestries, yet it felt like a gilded cage. She knew that as long as Donald Vance was alive and breathing, she would never truly be free. She would always be looking over her shoulder, always waiting for the next gray suit or leather jacket to appear in the crowd.
A soft knock sounded at her door.
Clara jumped, her hand going to her throat. “Who is it?”
The door opened slowly, and Vincent stepped into the room. He had washed the warehouse grime from his face, looking immaculate once again in a fresh silk shirt and dark trousers. He held a glass of warm milk and a small silver key in his hands.
“You should be resting, Clara,” Vincent said softly, placing the glass on her nightstand.
“I can’t,” she whispered, turning back to the window. “Every time I close my eyes, I hear his voice. I hear the sound of his boots on the stairs. He’s not going to stop, Mr. Moretti. I know him. He’d rather burn the whole world down than let me go.”
Vincent walked over, standing beside her at the window, his tall form shielding her from the darkness outside. He held out the small silver key.
“This is the key to the safe in the library downstairs,” Vincent said. “Inside, there is a passport with a new name, a plane ticket to a villa in Tuscany, and a deed to a small vineyard that belongs to my family front company. The accounts are fully funded. The moment this is over, you can leave Chicago. You can leave America. You can become whoever you want to be.”
Clara looked at the key, then up into Vincent’s stern, weathered face. “And what about Donald?”
Before Vincent could answer, a sharp, distant pop echoed through the trees at the edge of the property—the unmistakable sound of a suppressed rifle fire.
The estate’s emergency lights flickered once, then shifted to a deep, blood-red hue as the automated security system engaged.
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Vincent didn't panic. He reached into his waistband, pulling out a sleek, black semi-automatic pistol, his thumb smoothly clicking off the safety.
“Donald is here,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into that cold, absolute register. “Stay in this room, Clara. Lock the door. The monsters are at the gate, and it’s time to put them down for good.”
