Chapter 3 - THE BLOODLINE CONSPIRACY
I didn't wait for the thermite torch to finish burning through the heavy dining room doors.
I slipped out through the butler’s service pantry, moving like a ghost through the narrow, sound-proofed corridors built into the mansion’s thick walls. I knew every inch of this house; I had drawn the blueprints myself after taking control of the Chicago syndicate.
I emerged on the secondary landing directly behind the three tactical operators who were focusing their thermal cutter on the main dining room entrance.
They had no idea I was behind them.
I raised my weapon and fired four precise shots. Two hit the torch operator in the neck and lower spine; the third hit the tactical coordinator in the temple. The third operator turned, raising his weapon, but I closed the distance in two strides, grabbing his gun barrel, twisting it upward, and driving my combat knife straight up under his Kevlar helmet.
He went limp and collapsed to the floor.
Silence returned to the second floor, broken only by the low hum of the emergency lights and my own heavy breathing.
I crouched beside the tactical coordinator, unlatching his helmet and pulling off his balaclava.
He was young—maybe thirty. Clean-cut, tactical tattoo on his right shoulder featuring an eagle clutching an hourglass. Military contractor.
I searched his tactical vest and pulled out a encrypted tactical radio, a satellite phone, and a laminated target sheet.
I unfolded the paper under the crimson light.
There were six photos printed on the page.
Photo one: Alejandro Moretti (TARGET - TERMINATE). Photo two: Elena Gomez (TARGET - TERMINATE). Photos three, four, five, and six: Four tiny, identical faces, labeled SUBJECTS 1-4 (SECURE AND RETRIEVE).
They weren't here to kill my sons. They were here to take them.
Suddenly, the satellite phone in my hand began to vibrate. The caller ID displayed a single, scrambled private string of digits.
I clicked the receiver open and pressed it to my ear, remaining completely silent.
A voice came through the speaker—smooth, calm, and hauntingly familiar.
"Unit One, report," the voice said. "Is the house secured? Did you locate the quadruplets before Moretti reached the floor?"
My jaw clenched so hard I felt my teeth grind.
I knew that voice. I had shared dinners with that voice. I had stood beside that man at Sofia's funeral five years ago while he held my shoulder and wept with me.
It was Victor Rossi. My consigliere. My primary legal advisor and the second-in-command of the Moretti enterprise.
"Unit One is dead, Victor," I spoke into the phone, my voice dropping into an abyss of ice.
A long, heavy silence stretched across the line. I could hear the faint sound of wind chimes in the background of Victor's location.
"Alejandro," Victor finally replied, his tone shifting from tactical command to a calm, terrifyingly casual conversational tone. "I must admit... I am surprised you returned home three hours early. My surveillance team assured me your meeting with the waterfront developers would last until six."
"You sent hitmen into my home," I said, stepping over the corpses on the landing. "You hunted my wife five years ago. And you've been tracking my children."
"Oh, Alejandro... don't be so emotional. It doesn't suit a man of your reputation," Victor chuckled softly through the speaker. "Sofia was a clever woman. Seducing Dr. Vance to forge death certificates, hiding four identical heirs across three different states... she played a brilliant hand. But a bloodline like yours? Four direct male heirs to the largest criminal syndicate in the Midwest? They are far too valuable to be left in the hands of a grieving widower who has grown soft on grief."
"Where are you, Victor?"
"I am somewhere very safe, my old friend," Victor replied smoothly. "And now that you know about the boys, the game changes. You have two choices, Alejandro. Hand the children over to my team quietly, step down from the commission, and I will let you live out your days in retirement overseas."
"And option two?" I asked, reaching the carriage house stairs.
"Option two is that I burn Chicago to the ground, slaughter every loyal captain you have left, and take those boys over your cold, dead body. You have until midnight, Alejandro. Tick-tock."
The line went dead.
I smashed the satellite phone under my boot, threw open the door to the carriage house garage, and stepped inside.
The black armored SUV was idling in the dark. In the rear passenger seats, Elena sat clutching all four identical boys to her chest.
As I opened the driver's door, the smallest boy—Mateo—looked up at me through the dark glass, his tiny hand pressing against the window.
I looked into his eyes, seeing my own soul reflected back at me.
"Drive," Elena whispered, her voice trembling. "Where do we go?"
May you like
I put the vehicle in drive and slammed my foot onto the accelerator, smashing through the wooden garage doors and roaring out into the dark Chicago fog.
"We go to war," I said.
