Chapter 7 - Fire and Rain
By 2:00 AM, the rain began to pour over Chicago, washing the dark asphalt of the industrial district in sheets of gray water.
Dante’s private convoy of three black armored SUVs moved silently through the deserted streets, headlights off, guided by night-vision optics and local scouts. They weren't heading to the docks or the stash houses; they were heading directly to Vincent Salvatore’s private residential compound tucked away in the gated hills overlooking Lake Michigan.
Inside the lead vehicle, Dante sat in silence, cleaning the slide of a customized Sig Sauer 9mm pistol with a clean cloth. The amber dashboard lights cast deep shadows across his sharp cheekbones.
Jamaima was back at the estate—locked inside the master suite under heavy guard, ordered by Dante not to step foot outside the room until he returned. She had screamed at him, thrown a porcelain vase against the wall, and demanded to come with him. But Dante hadn't budged. He had pinned her against the door, kissed her fiercely—a desperate, brutal collision of lips that left her breathless—and told her that he couldn't fight a war and protect her at the same time.
“Wait for me,” he had whispered against her lips. “If I don't come back, Marcus has instructions to get you safely out of the country. But bet on me, Jamaima. I always win.”
Now, sitting in the back of the SUV as it approached Salvatore’s iron gates, Dante’s mind was a single-minded engine of destruction.
"Ram the gate," Dante ordered quietly.
The lead SUV accelerated instantly, its reinforced steel bumper slamming into the ornate wrought-iron gates of the Salvatore estate with a deafening crash of snapping metal and screeching hinges. The vehicle plowed through the courtyard, stopping abruptly near the grand double doors of the mansion.
Doors flew open. Armed men in black tactical gear poured out into the pouring rain, rifles raised, securing the perimeter in seconds.
Dante stepped out into the downpour, his heavy wool coat absorbing the rain, his expression a mask of pure, unadulterated vengeance.
The front doors of the mansion burst open, and half a dozen Salvatore enforcers rushed out, weapons drawn. But they were too late, and they were hopelessly unprepared. Before they could raise their sights, a barrage of suppressed gunfire erupted from the flanking shadows. Marcus and his strike team cut down the resistance with clinical efficiency, bodies dropping into the wet grass and puddles.
Dante walked up the marble steps of the mansion alone, stepping over a fallen guard without glancing down. He raised his boot and kicked the heavy oak double doors inward with a resounding smash.
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Inside, sitting calmly in an armchair by a roaring fireplace with a glass of scotch in his hand, was Vincent Salvatore.
"Well, well," Vincent said, not even flinching as Dante stepped into the foyer, water dripping from his coat onto the Persian rug. "I didn't expect you to RSVP so quickly, Dante."
