Chapter 7 - The Reckoning
At 4:00 AM, the storm clouds over Chicago parted, revealing a cold, razor-sharp crescent moon hanging over the city skyline.
While my estate was being cleaned and secured by dozens of Moretti cleanup crews, I led a convoy of six blacked-out armored SUVs into the heart of downtown Chicago.
Don Lorenzo Falcone’s ultimate hideout was not a rural estate or a hidden warehouse—it was the top three floors of the luxury Sovereign Tower, a seventy-story glass skyscraper overlooking the Chicago River. Lorenzo believed his wealth, his high-tech security systems, and his private security force made him untouchable in his glass castle.
He was wrong.
My tech team had hijacked the building’s master elevator controls three minutes prior. We bypassed the lobby entirely, taking two express service elevators straight up to the 68th floor penthouse.
When the elevator doors slid open into Lorenzo’s marble-floored penthouse, my strike team moved like a silent, lethal tide.
There was no drawn-out battle. Lorenzo’s sleepy floor guards were disarmed and neutralized in seconds.
By 4:15 AM, I kicked open the heavy double doors of Lorenzo Falcone’s private master bedroom.
Lorenzo—a handsome, arrogant thirty-two-year-old with slicked-back dark hair—was frantically trying to pack stacks of hundred-dollar bills and passports into a leather duffel bag on his king-sized bed.
When he heard the door slam, he spun around, reaching for a gold-plated revolver sitting on his nightstand.
Marco stepped forward and kicked the nightstand so hard it flew across the room, shattering against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
Lorenzo stumbled back against his bed, his eyes wide with hysterical disbelief as he looked at me.
"Adrien?!" he choked out, his voice cracking. "How... how are you alive?! My men said your house was destroyed!"
I walked slowly into the room, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my long wool coat. The wind outside howled against the glass pane behind him.
"Your men are dead, Lorenzo," I said, my voice terrifyingly calm. "Victor is dead. Your mercenaries are dead. Your syndicate is gone."
"Listen to me!" Lorenzo begged, dropping to his knees, throwing his hands into the air. "We can make a deal, Adrien! I’ll give you all the Falcone family territory! I’ll give you fifty percent of our offshore accounts in the Caymans! Millions! Tens of millions!"
I stopped three feet from him, looking down at his pathetic, trembling form.
"Do you know what you did wrong, Lorenzo?" I asked quietly.
Lorenzo swallowed hard, tears of terror leaking down his cheeks. "I... I shouldn't have attacked your house..."
"No," I corrected softly. "Your mistake was assuming that because my wife died, I was weak. Your mistake was thinking you could torture eight-month-old babies who have done nothing to this world except breathe."
I pulled out a small black object from my coat pocket and set it down on the velvet duvet of his bed.
It was the matte-black ultrasonic transducer that Sophie had found in my children's nursery.
"You like loud sounds, Lorenzo?" I asked.
I pulled my custom pistol, attached a sleek black suppressor, and aimed it directly between his eyes.
"No, please! Adrien, NO—!"
A soft, muffled gunshot echoed through the high-rise penthouse.
Don Lorenzo Falcone collapsed onto his pile of stolen cash.
I turned around and walked out of the bedroom without looking back.
"Marco," I said as we stepped back into the elevator. "Contact the Chicago Outfit Commission. Tell them the Falcone family no longer exists. All their assets, territories, and soldiers now belong to the Moretti Syndicate."
"Understood, Boss," Marco nodded, respect gleaming in his eyes. "And what about the estate?"
May you like
I looked at my watch. It was 5:00 AM. Dawn was breaking over the lake, casting golden light through the clouds.
"Take me home," I said, a profound sense of peace washing over my soul for the first time in eight long months. "My family is waiting for me."
