Chapter 8 - The Gathering Storm
Peace in Veto Ferrante’s orbit, however, was never permitted to be permanent.
In late August, while Willow was resting in her suite, a violent shift occurred in the upper echelons of Chicago’s criminal syndicates. The remnants of Enzo Mancini’s crew—desperate, cornered, and furious about the systematic dismantling of their drug routes—decided to strike back at the only vulnerability they believed Veto possessed: his household.
It was 2:00 a.m. when the perimeter alarms began to shriek.
Willow woke instantly to the harsh flashing of red security lights casting erratic geometric patterns across the ceiling of her bedroom. Downstairs, the muffled pop-pop-pop of suppressed automatic gunfire echoed through the stone corridors.
Her breath caught in her throat. She sat up, clutching her swollen belly, her mind racing.
Stay put. Mrs. Gable said stay put.
Before she could reach for her robe, the heavy oak door of her suite burst open.
Dante stood in the threshold, his face streaked with soot and sweat, a tactical vest strapped over his black shirt, holding a specialized submachine gun in a low, ready stance.
“Miss Whitlock,” Dante barked, his voice urgent. “Get your coat. We’re moving to the subterranean safe room immediately.”
“What’s happening?” Willow asked, her voice shaking as she scrambled out of bed.
May you like
“A couple of dead men trying to negotiate from the grave,” Dante said grimly, guiding her rapidly toward the private service stairwell at the end of the hall. “Boss is handling the perimeter breach in the courtyard.”
As they descended into the cool, concrete-reinforced tunnels beneath the mansion, the heavy concussions of flashbang grenades shook the foundations overhead. Willow kept her hand pressed against her stomach, whispering silent prayers not for herself, but for the man standing out in the smoke and fire.
