Chapter 12 - The Whispers of Don Domenico
Within ten minutes, the estate transformed from a peaceful family sanctuary into an armed fortress.
Steel storm shutters rolled down over every panoramic window, sealing the mansion against the darkening Illinois sky.
Fourteen heavily armed guards in Kevlar vests took positions at every entrance, their assault rifles held low and ready.
Mia and Lily had been taken to the subterranean safe room with their trusted nanny, Rosa, leaving Vincent and me in the grand study.
Marco entered, breathless, his trench coat soaked from an unexpected spring downpour.
He laid a black ballistic folder on the desk, looking directly at Vincent with hollow eyes.
"The outer infrared sensors on the lake terrace were looped for exactly four minutes, Boss," Marco reported.
"Whoever bypassed them had our proprietary security algorithms. That isn't street talent. That's family-level clearance."
I leaned against the mahogany desk, feeling the weight of the air crushing my lungs.
"Explain the coin, Vincent. You owe me the truth."
Vincent poured two fingers of bourbon into a crystal glass but didn't drink it.
He stared into the amber liquid, his jaw muscles clenching in tight, rhythmic pulses.
"Before my father took total control of Chicago in the nineties, the city was split," Vincent began quietly.
"The Morettis held the south side and the railyards, while the north and the harbor belonged to Don Domenico Valenti."
I remembered the name from dusty newspaper clippings I had seen long ago.
"The Valenti family vanished overnight," I recalled. "People said they fled to Sicily after the warehouse fire."
"They didn't flee," Vincent said coldly, turning to look into my eyes.
"My father set that fire. He ordered the Valenti compound burned to ashes, including Domenico and his sons."
A shudder ran through my core as the reality of my husband's heritage settled heavily in my throat.
"That crimson box came from a Valenti," Marco added grimly.
"More specifically, Don Domenico's youngest son, Julian. Rumors spread in Brooklyn two months ago that Julian survived the fire as a boy."
"He didn't just survive," Vincent said, smashing his glass down onto the desk, fracturing the crystal.
"He rebuilt his network in the shadows, waiting for my father to die and for me to assume the throne."
"Why leave it next to our daughters?" I asked, a wave of maternal panic rising like bile.
"Because he wants me to know that stone walls and armed men cannot protect what I love," Vincent replied, stepping close and gripping my face with both hands.
"He wants to drag me into hell, Elena. But I will tear Chicago down to the bedrock before I let anyone harm a hair on your head or our girls'."
Before I could answer, Vincent's secure satellite phone vibrated on the desk, buzzing like a venomous wasp against the polished wood.
Vincent pressed speakerphone, keeping his eyes locked on mine.
May you like
A smooth, melodic voice echoed through the silent study:
"Good evening, Vincent. Did the girls enjoy their bedtime story?"
