Chapter 5 - Whispers in the ICU
Before we could clear the marble entrance of the penthouse, the muffled pop of an automatic weapon echoed from down the hall.
Cassian’s men weren't asleep. A guard stepped around the corner with an MPX submachine gun, but Mateo was faster; a single shot took the man through the eye socket, dropping him instantly onto the white Persian rug.
Chaos erupted. Gunfire shattered the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking Lake Michigan, the wind and sleet howling into the luxurious apartment. Glass showered the floor like frozen diamonds. I advanced steadily down the hallway, firing methodically, dropping two more guards who scrambled from the security alcove. My men swept through the guest rooms, clearing every corner with ruthless precision.
In the master study, sitting behind a massive desk of reclaimed walnut, sat Cassian.
He didn't have a weapon in his hand. Instead, a glass of Macallan sat beside an open leather briefcase containing stacks of bearer bonds and a matte-black encrypted hard drive. His hands were raised, trembling, though he attempted to muster a defiant smirk as I stepped into the room, my smoking gun lowered at my side.
“Dominic,” Cassian said, his voice cracking slightly. “You always were faster than people gave you credit for.”
I walked toward the desk, stepping over the broken glass. I did not raise the gun. I placed both hands on the walnut surface and leaned forward, looking into the eyes of the man who had been my brother in arms for over a decade.
“Did you look at her, Cassian?” I asked quietly. “When Tommy’s car was crushed, did you walk over to the wreckage and look at my wife?”
Cassian swallowed hard, his bravado evaporating into the cold lake air pouring through the shattered windows. “It wasn't personal, Dom. You were getting soft. You spent all your time chasing that blonde whore, ignoring the territory. Lorenzo offered us a fifty-fifty split on the entire Midwest distribution network. Clara… Clara was an accident. She wasn't supposed to be there!”
“She knew,” I whispered. “She knew you were a dog before I did. She went to face your masters to protect this family, while you hid behind an armored truck and tried to execute her in the dark.”
“Dominic, wait—I have the codes! Lorenzo will wipe out your eastern line if you kill me! You need me to broker the truce!”
I reached out, picked up the glass of Macallan from his desk, and poured the amber liquid slowly over the top of his expensive leather briefcase.
“I don't broker truces with dead men,” I said.
I nodded to Mateo. Mateo stepped forward, grabbed Cassian by his silk collar, and dragged him screaming toward the shattered window. The wind howled furiously, fifty stories above the jagged concrete and freezing waters of the Chicago River.
“Where is Lorenzo meeting you tomorrow?” I asked, picking up the black hard drive from the desk.
“The Calumet grain terminals!” Cassian shrieked, his legs dangling over the precipice, the dizzying abyss of Chicago yawning beneath him. “At six in the morning! The shipment is coming in on the southern rail! Please, Dom! In the name of our fathers, don't do this!”
I looked down at the hard drive in my hand, then looked up into Cassian’s terrified eyes.
“My father taught me how to run an empire,” I said softly. “Clara taught me what was worth keeping. You aren't worth either.”
I gave a simple flick of my fingers. Mateo opened his hands.
Cassian’s scream was swallowed instantly by the roaring gale, fading into absolute nothingness against the drop.
May you like
I turned my back on the empty window. “Take the drive,” I told Mateo. “We go back to the hospital. Lorenzo Moretti will wait for his dawn meeting, and I will be there to greet him.”
***
