Chapter 3 - The Chicago Dragon
The grand courtyard was silent save for the idling rumble of the heavy SUV engines.
Alessandro walked out onto the stone porch, his coat unbuttoned, his hands casually resting in his trouser pockets. Behind him stood Marcus Vance and six heavily armed Moretti soldiers, their hands hovering near their shoulder holsters.
"Vincent," Alessandro said smoothly, his voice carrying easily across the stone driveway. "You're early. I didn't expect you until tomorrow morning."
Vincent Romano sneered, his cold blue eyes locking onto Alessandro like a cobra eyeing its prey. He tapped his brass cane against the stone driveway.
"When my daughter calls me crying at eleven in the morning, telling me that the Don of New York has put her under house arrest like a criminal, I don't wait for tomorrow, Moretti," Vincent spat, his Chicago accent thick and rough. "What is the meaning of this insult?"
Alessandro slowly walked down the stone steps, stopping ten feet away from the barrel of three assault rifles held by Romano guards. He didn't even blink at the weapons pointed at his chest.
"Your daughter insulted a member of my household, Vincent," Alessandro stated calmly. "She raised her voice, threatened a child, and attempted to exercise authority she does not possess inside my walls."
Vincent let out a harsh, barking laugh. "A member of your household? Isabella told me! It was a damn maid! A servant girl and her illegitimate brat! You put my daughter under guard for a nobody who cleans your toilets?!"
"The child is mine," Alessandro declared, his voice dropping into a register so cold, so terrifyingly absolute, that even the Romano guards holding rifles visibly tensed.
Vincent froze. The arrogance on his aged face faltered for a fraction of a second. "What did you say?"
"The child is my blood, Vincent," Alessandro repeated, stepping closer, closing the distance until he was standing face-to-face with the Chicago boss. "She is a Moretti. The woman is her mother. And in this house, no one—not even a Romano—disrespects my family."
Vincent’s face turned from pale to a deep, dangerous crimson. He gripped his cane so hard his knuckles turned white.
"You fool," Vincent whispered, his voice trembling with sheer fury. "We negotiated this truce for ten years! The marriage between Isabella and you was supposed to cement the shipping lanes from New York to the Great Lakes! Millions of dollars a month, Moretti! And you're throwing it all away for a maid's bastard?!"
"Watch your mouth, Vincent," Alessandro warned, his eyes narrowing into deadly slits. "Speak about my daughter like that again, and you won't leave this driveway alive."
In an instant, the sound of dozens of safety catches clicking off echoed across the courtyard. Moretti guards positioned on the roof balconies above aimed down at the Romano convoy. The tension was so thick a single spark would ignite a bloodbath right there on the gravel.
Vincent looked up at the roof, seeing the laser sights dotting the chests of his bodyguards. He realized he was surrounded, outdressed, and outmaneuvered on Moretti turf.
"You think you're untouchable inside your stone castle, don't you, Alessandro?" Vincent hissed softly, taking a step back toward his vehicle. "You break this engagement, and the truce is dead. The shipping lines are closed. Chicago will bleed New York dry."
"Then let it bleed," Alessandro replied without a shred of hesitation. "Get your daughter out of my house. You have fifteen minutes to load her things and clear my gates. If I see a Romano on my property after that, I will consider it an act of war."
Vincent stared at Alessandro for a long, silent moment, recognizing the absolute truth in the younger boss's eyes. He knew he couldn't win a firefight in Alessandro's driveway.
"Isabella!" Vincent roared toward the second-floor windows. "Get down here now!"
Five minutes later, Isabella Romano came rushing down the grand stone steps, her face pale, her luggage hastily thrown into leather bags carried by bodyguards. She looked at Alessandro, hoping for a shred of hesitation, a sign of regret, but the Don didn't even look at her. He stood like an iron statue, watching as she was shoved into the back of her father's SUV.
As the heavy SUV doors slammed shut, Vincent rolled down his window, looking at Alessandro one last time.
"You made a fatal mistake today, Moretti," Vincent warned coldly. "You chose a peasant over a queen. And Chicago never forgets an insult."
The three black SUVs reversed down the gravel driveway, tearing through the broken iron gates and speeding off into the foggy afternoon.
Marcus Vance stepped up beside Alessandro, watching the red taillights vanish down the road. "What are your orders, Boss? Should I double the perimeter guard?"
"Double the perimeter," Alessandro ordered, his tone dark and calculated. "Recall all senior capos from Brooklyn and New Jersey. Tell them the war with Chicago has resumed. And Vance..."
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"Yes, Boss?"
"Bring me the financial ledgers for the Romano shipping docks in New Jersey," Alessandro said, a cold, ruthless smile touching his lips. "If Vincent wants a war, I'm going to take his empire apart piece by piece before he ever reaches my front gate."
