Chapter 2 - Ambush on Wacker Drive
The private elevator dropped sixty floors like a plummeting stone.
My fingers dug into the rubber handle of the suitcase until my knuckles went pale.
The cold reality set in the moment the digital floor indicator flickered past the thirtieth floor.
Carlo was planning to die tonight.
He had deliberately provoked me into leaving because he knew that if I smelled danger, I would refuse to abandon him.
He had weaponized my pride against me.
When the elevator chime echoed through the basement level, the doors opened into the dim, concrete shadows of the private underground garage.
A single black armored Cadillac Escalade sat idling near the ramp, its headlights cutting through the subterranean mist.
Frank, Carlo’s personal driver and a veteran enforcer who had served his family for thirty years, stepped out from the shadows.
He was wearing his tactical vest over an unbuttoned overcoat, and his hand rested firmly on the butt of an automatic weapon tucked into his waistband.
"Mrs. Barbieri," Frank said, his gravelly voice trembling with unusual urgency.
He took the suitcase from my grip without waiting for permission and tossed it into the rear cargo hold.
"Get in the rear seat and keep your head below the tinted glass."
"Where are you taking me, Frank?" I asked, planting my feet on the oil-stained concrete.
"The boss gave explicit orders," Frank replied, his eyes scanning the empty garage ramps like a hunted animal.
"A chartered Gulfstream is waiting on the tarmac at Gary Executive Airport."
"You are flying to Geneva on an encrypted flight manifest."
"You have new identities, property deeds, and banking passcodes waiting in a vault in Zurich."
I stared at him, cold rain dripping through the overhead vents onto my hair.
"He is clearing the board," I said slowly.
"Tell me who came to the city tonight, Frank."
Frank’s weathered face aged ten years in three seconds.
"Trent Falcone," he whispered.
The name fell between us like lead.
Falcone ran the eastern syndicate out of New York, a butcher who had spent five years trying to seize Carlo’s rail lines and river terminals.
"Falcone’s men breached our outer checkpoints twenty minutes ago," Frank said, physically shoving me into the back seat of the Escalade.
"Four of our top lieutenants took bribes and shut off the penthouse security feeds from the inside."
"Carlo is alone up there with six loyal men against an entire strike team."
"He stayed behind to bottleneck them in the elevator bank so you could clear the city limits."
"No," I gasped, reaching for the door handle.
"Drive back up! We have the auxiliary weapons locker in the sub-basement—"
Frank slammed the heavy door, locked the central console, and leaped behind the steering wheel.
The Escalade’s engine roared to life, tires screeching against wet concrete as we rocketed up the spiral ramp and into the deluge of the city streets.
The storm had completely emptied Wacker Drive.
Water rushed along the curbs like a river, reflecting the green neon lights of the drawbridges.
Frank drove with both hands white-knuckling the leather wheel, his eyes constantly flicking between the road and the rearview mirror.
"He loves you more than his empire, Bianca," Frank muttered, swerving hard around a stalled city bus.
"He knew Falcone would use you as leverage to strip every asset before carving you both up on camera."
"He chose to die fighting so you could live rich and free."
Suddenly, my cell phone vibrated violently against my leg.
It was an unknown satellite number.
I swiped the screen with a trembling thumb.
An image loaded across the display, grain by grain.
My heart stopped beating.
The photo was taken inside our living room, over the white sheepskin rug Carlo had bought me for our fifth anniversary.
Carlo was on his knees.
His hands were bound behind his back with industrial plastic ties.
A heavy boot was pressed into the center of his shoulder blades, and a man’s hand held a silver revolver against the temple of his bowed head.
Beneath the image was a single line of text:
*Your husband told us you were already dead, Bianca. Tell us where the master ledger is, or we skin him on speakerphone.*
Before a scream could tear through my throat, twin high beams blazed through the sheet of rain directly ahead of us.
A heavy dump truck burst out from an alleyway, its steel reinforced bumper aimed directly at our hood.
May you like
"Brace!" Frank screamed.
Metal met metal with the force of an explosion.
