Chapter 7 - The Treachery Within
The move to the Lakeview estate took place three days later under heavy armed escort.
The estate was an imposing neo-classical fortress surrounded by ten-foot wrought-iron fences, perimeter motion sensors, and twenty-four-hour patrols. For three weeks, Brielle’s new life settled into a demanding, structured routine.
In the mornings, she sat with Mia for her home-schooling lessons, guiding the bright little girl through reading and mathematics. In the afternoons, however, Brielle’s life shifted dramatically.
In the underground firing range beneath the estate’s carriage house, Frank Rossi—a former Marine Corps scout sniper with silver hair and a face like weathered leather—drilled Brielle ruthlessly.
“A nine-millimeter has kick, Dawson. Don't fight the recoil; absorb it through your wrists,” Rossi barked over the deafening crack of gunfire.
Brielle fired. Three rounds punched through the center mass of the paper silhouette fifteen yards away.
“Better,” Rossi grunted, adjusting her stance with a firm nudge to her shoulder. “You’ve got natural trigger control. Most civilians jerk the trigger when they anticipate the bang. You don't flinch.”
“I flinched eleven years ago,” Brielle muttered, reloading the magazine with practiced efficiency. “I’m all out of flinches.”
While Brielle adapted to her new role, the underworld beyond the estate’s walls was spiraling into chaos. Dante was rarely seen during daylight hours. He returned to the estate late at night, the scent of gunpowder and cold rain clinging to his coats, his eyes shadowed with fatigue.
The eradication of the Castiglione faction had created a power vacuum, and rumors whispered of an alliance between disgruntled syndicate capos and an aggressive Russian cartel based in Brighton Park.
One rainy Thursday midnight, Brielle couldn't sleep. The phantom aches in her ribs—a souvenir from the South Side alley—often flared with barometric shifts. She slipped out of her bedroom suite on the second floor, wearing a dark sweater and jeans, intending to fetch a glass of warm milk from the kitchen.
As she descended the grand marble staircase, the lights across the entire estate abruptly died.
*Click.*
The soft hum of the HVAC system ceased. The warm amber chandeliers went black. The heavy silence that followed was suffocating.
A second later, the estate’s backup emergency red lights flickered on, bathing the hallways in an eerie, blood-colored glow.
Brielle froze on the landing.
*This wasn't a standard power outage.* The estate had dual-redundant industrial generators designed to kick on seamlessly within half a second.
From the foyer below, the muffled *thwip-thwip* of suppressed gunshots echoed through the vaulted ceiling.
Brielle’s heart leaped into her throat. She dropped into a low crouch against the balustrade, peering down into the grand entrance hall.
Two of Dante’s outer-perimeter guards lay dead on the checkered marble floor. Standing over them was not an invading squad of masked mercenaries, but someone Brielle recognized instantly:
Marco Vane, Dante’s secondary logistics coordinator—a man who had sat at Dante’s dinner table just two nights prior.
Marco was sliding a silenced automatic pistol back into his shoulder holster while speaking quietly into a tactical radio.
“Power grid cut from the substation. Internal security cameras looped for ninety seconds. Basement security hub neutralized. The front gate is open. Send the strike team in now. The Boss isn't here; the old woman and the kid are upstairs unprotected.”
Brielle’s breath caught. *Treachery.* Dante was across town at an emergency syndicate council meeting. The strike had been timed with insider precision.
Marco turned toward the stairs, drawing his weapon once more.
May you like
Brielle didn't hesitate. She didn't have her chair leg. But thanks to Frank Rossi, she had something far more dangerous tucked into the waistband of her jeans: a compact Glock 19.
---
