The Dying Mafia Boss Called Me a Florist—Then I Found the Poison in His Whiskey...

The master bedroom suite had a private service exit that led directly into the second-floor gallery overlooking the grand library—the very room where Matteo had summoned the family capos earlier.

Dante moved with terrifying purpose now, the atropine masking his physical pain and fueling his muscles with synthetic energy. I stayed right behind him, keeping my pistol drawn, watching his back as we navigated the narrow wall passage.

We reached the wrought-iron balcony overlooking the library.

Below us, the massive room was in utter chaos.

Bookshelves were torn down, leather chairs overturned, and bullet holes pitted the floor-to-ceiling mahogany paneling. Four capos lay dead near the stone fireplace.

At the center of the room stood Matteo Moretti, guarded by six heavy-set mercenaries armed with submachine guns.

Beside Matteo stood Vincent Corvo.

Vincent’s face was bloodied from our encounter in the cellar, one eye swollen shut, a dirty handkerchief pressed against his jaw.

“Is the second floor clear?” Matteo demanded, yelling over the fading sound of gunfire from the front entrance.

“My men are clearing the master suite now,” Vincent spat, his good eye gleaming with malice. “Dante’s dead, Matteo. If he wasn't dead from the scotch, my men put a bullet in his head three minutes ago.”

“And the girl?” Matteo asked, smoothing his silk tie despite the surrounding carnage.

“Dead too,” Vincent lied. “It’s over. The capos downstairs who didn't submit are gone. You control the family now, Matteo.”

Matteo let out a long, shuddering breath, then pulled a gold cigar case from his pocket. He snapped it open, selected a cigar, and lit it with a matching gold lighter.

“Poor Dante,” Matteo said, tossing the match onto the floor. “He was always too soft for the modern world. He thought loyalty could be bought with respect. He never understood that fear is the only currency that doesn't depreciate.”

“You always were a terrible judge of value, Matteo.”

Dante’s voice boomed down from the gallery like thunder from an angry god.

Matteo froze, the cigar stopping half-inch from his lips.

Every mercenary in the room looked up toward the wrought-iron balcony.

Dante was standing at the railing, illuminated by the high arched windows behind him, looking like a demon resurrected from the underworld. He didn't look sick. He didn't look dying. He looked like the monster Chicago had feared for thirty years.

“D-Dante?” Matteo stammered, dropping his cigar onto the carpet. “How... you’re supposed to be—”

“Dead?” Dante finished the sentence, stepping forward and resting the barrel of the drum shotgun on the iron railing. “You should have hired a better doctor, brother. Or a better poisoner.”

Vincent’s reaction was instantaneous. He raised his submachine gun toward the balcony—

BOOM!

Dante pulled the trigger. The heavy slug from the drum shotgun caught Vincent square in the chest, lifting his heavy frame off the floor and throwing him backward into the stone fireplace. He crumpled onto the hearth, motionless.

The remaining mercenaries panicked, opening fire upward into the plaster overhang.

“DOWN!” Dante bellowed, shoving me back into the arched doorway as bullets chewed through the iron railings.

Dante leaned over the edge and unloaded the shotgun—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!—the deafening blasts shaking the floorboards beneath our feet. Heavy 12-gauge rounds tore through the library, shredding furniture, smashing glass, and dropping two more mercenaries where they stood.

Down below, the remaining mercenaries broke. Seeing their leader resurrected and their comrades decimated, they abandoned Matteo and fled toward the smashed patio doors leading to the garden.

Silence descended upon the library, broken only by the heavy, ragged breathing of two brothers.

Dante walked down the grand spiral staircase, step by step, the empty shotgun hanging from his right hand. I followed three steps behind him, my pistol raised, scanning the shadows for any lingering threat.

Matteo was backed against the large oak desk at the end of the room, his hands shaking violently as he pulled a small snub-nosed revolver from his ankle holster.

“Stay back!” Matteo screamed, his voice high-pitched and hysterical. “Stay back, Dante! I’ll shoot you! I swear to God I’ll shoot you!”

Dante didn't stop. He walked right up to the barrel of his brother’s gun until the steel pressed directly against his chest.

“Shoot me then,” Dante whispered, his voice dangerously soft. “Look me in the eye and do what you didn't have the guts to do with that bottle.”

Matteo’s finger trembled against the trigger. Tears of terror and rage filled his pale blue eyes. “You never gave me a chance! Thirty years I stood in your shadow! I built the union deals! I handled the politicians! And you treated me like a child!”

“I protected you,” Dante said quietly. “I kept your hands clean so you could walk into a restaurant in this city without looking over your shoulder. But you wanted the throne.”

“I deserved it!” Matteo shrieked.

“You couldn't even kill me yourself,” Dante said coldly. “You paid my security chief to do it with glass polish. You’re a coward, Matteo. And a coward can’t rule Chicago.”

Dante reached out with a motion so fast it was a blur, snatching the snub-nosed revolver out of Matteo’s hand, twisting his wrist until the bone popped, and shoving him back against the desk.

Matteo collapsed onto his knees, cradling his broken wrist, weeping openly. “Please, Dante... please. We’re blood. Our mother... think of our mother...”

Dante stood over his brother, looking down at him with an expression of profound, empty sorrow. The synthetic energy of the atropine was beginning to wear off; I could see Dante’s shoulders dropping, his breath turning shallow once more.

He looked back at me.

“Ms. Rossi,” Dante said softly. “Step outside into the garden.”

“Dante—”

“Step outside, Camilla,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “This is family business.”

I looked at Matteo on the floor, then at Dante’s pale face. I nodded slowly, lowered my gun, and walked through the smashed patio doors into the cool Autumn rain.