Chapter 13 - The Architecture of a Parasite
I emerged from the vault into the blinding daylight of LaSalle Street with the folder tucked inside my leather portfolio.
Arthur Vance stood beside the waiting town car, scanning my expression with shrewd, ancient eyes.
"You know now," he said quietly, not framing it as a question.
"You knew all along, Arthur," I said, my voice dangerously level.
"Your father suspected Marco for years," Arthur replied, opening the car door for me.
"Antonio knew his brother possessed neither the discipline nor the stomach for leadership, only the appetite for it."
"Then why didn't my father cut Marco’s throat before he passed?" I asked, sliding onto the leather seat.
"Because in our world, executing your own blood without irrefutable proof shatters the Commission’s foundation," Arthur said.
"Your father had loyalty, but he lacked the physical evidence; Enzo kept the insurance policy to blackmail Marco later."
"Where is Uncle Marco right now?" I asked.
"He is currently presiding over an emergency board meeting at the downtown Chicago headquarters," Arthur answered.
"He called the meeting forty minutes ago, the moment news broke that Enzo’s assets were being absorbed by the state."
"He thinks the empire is up for grabs," I murmured.
"He believes you are emotionally incapacitated, wandering cemetery roads like a grieving widow," Arthur said.
I pulled my compact mirror from my handbag, checking the sharp line of my crimson lipstick.
My reflection did not look like a woman who was broken.
It looked like a Romano who had just declared war on her own name.
"Drive to the headquarters, Arthur," I said.
"And have Mateo assemble twelve of our father's original security captains in the lobby."
"Elena," Arthur cautioned, "Marco has hired outside private security from the South Side docks."
"Then tell Mateo to bring extra magazines," I replied without looking up from the glass.
The drive to the Romano Tower took less than ten minutes.
The gleaming glass skyscraper rose fifty stories above the Chicago River, built entirely on my father's ruthless vision.
As my car pulled up to the private executive entrance, two burly men in cheap black suits stepped toward the vehicle.
Before they could touch the door handle, Mateo’s van pulled alongside, and six armed men stepped out with silent coordination.
The two guards backed away instantly, hands held high against the cold brick wall.
I stepped out of the car, adjusting the cuffs of my bespoke charcoal coat.
I walked through the revolving glass doors without breaking stride.
The marble lobby was silent; the receptionist looked up, her face draining of color as she recognized me.
"Signorina Romano," she stammered, reaching for the desk phone.
Mateo reached over the counter and gently severed the phone cord with a serrated folding knife.
"We’ll announce ourselves, Gianna," I said softly, stepping into the private executive elevator.
The elevator ascended smoothly toward the penthouse boardroom on the fiftieth floor.
With every floor the elevator passed, the phantom scent of hospital disinfectant in my memory faded away.
It was replaced by the clean, sharp smell of cold brass and impending retribution.
When the elevator chime rang on the top floor, the heavy mahogany double doors of the boardroom were closed.
Through the frosted glass, I could hear Marco’s booming, arrogant laughter reverberating down the corridor.
He was toasting with champagne.
He was celebrating the final partition of the Romano estate before the corpse of my marriage had even cooled.
I didn't knock.
May you like
I placed both hands against the heavy oak doors and pushed them wide open.
***
