Chapter 4 - The Spider in the Web
The underground holding rooms beneath the Moretti mansion were a far cry from the glittering marble ballrooms upstairs. Lit by harsh, flickering fluorescent tubes, the concrete corridors smelled of damp earth, old iron, and suppressed fear.
Lorenzo strode down the hallway, his leather shoes clicking sharply against the floor. Behind him rushed Marco and two heavily armed enforcers.
At the end of the hall, inside a reinforced interrogation cell, sat the body of Julian Vance—or rather, what was left of the young catering supervisor. He had been propped up in a metal chair, a sickening message carved into the concrete wall behind him in fresh red ink: THE THRONE IS ROTTEN.
“Clean work,” Marco muttered, inspecting the angle of the fatal wound. “Professional blade work. No hesitation. Whoever did this had clearance to the inner service corridors.”
Lorenzo stood over the corpse, his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask of glacial fury. He didn't look at the blood; he looked at the ring on Julian’s right hand—a heavy silver signet bearing a family crest that hadn't been seen in Chicago in over a decade.
“It’s not a Vance crest,” Lorenzo said quietly, his voice dangerously low.
Marco squinted at the ring. “Wait... is that...?”
“Santino,” Lorenzo supplied the name like a curse. “My cousin Santino. The one who supposedly died in a warehouse fire in Palermo eight years ago.”
“Santino is dead,” Marco insisted, shaking his head. “We saw the dental records, Boss. We attended the funeral!”
“A closed-casket funeral funded by a shell company registered in the Cayman Islands,” Lorenzo corrected sharply, turning away from the body. “Santino always was a master of accounting tricks and theatrical exits. He didn't die in Palermo. He stayed behind, built a coalition of disgruntled capos, and now he’s back in Chicago to carve up the empire while I’m distracted by charity galas.”
“If Santino is back,” Marco said, swallowing hard, “that means the leak isn't just in the catering staff. He has people inside our executive council. He has someone feeding him our security schedules.”
Lorenzo walked out of the cell, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair. The realization hit him with the force of a freight train. The attempt on Nero wasn't just a random act of sabotage to scare the guests; it was a distraction. A deliberate diversion to pull security away from the north wing while someone accessed his private office upstairs.
“My office,” Lorenzo muttered, his eyes widening. “The physical ledger. The consolidation deeds for the port terminals.”
Without another word, Lorenzo broke into a dead sprint down the concrete corridor, heading for the private elevator that led straight to the master suite.
Upstairs, in the quiet sanctuary of the Moretti mansion, Hannah Reed had no idea she was sitting right in the middle of a war zone.
She had been escorted to the second-floor guest parlor by a polite security guard while the men investigated the gate incident. The room was expansive, decorated in rich mahogany, velvet draperies, and an impressive collection of rare oil paintings.
Nero trotted beside her, his massive head held high, no longer trembling.
Hannah walked over to a massive floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, admiring the leather-bound classics, when she noticed something odd.
Tucked behind a first-edition copy of The Count of Monte Cristo was a thin, white envelope protruding slightly from the wood paneling. It didn't look like an ordinary book; it looked like a hidden compartment seam.
Curiosity getting the better of her, Hannah reached out and gently pulled the envelope.
It slid out easily.
Across the front, written in hurried, panicked handwriting, was a single name: HANNAH.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She wasn't supposed to be in this room. She was just a shelter volunteer who happened to stop a wolfdog. Why was her name hidden inside a secret panel in a mob boss’s private library?
With trembling fingers, Hannah tore open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside.
If you’re reading this, Lorenzo’s paranoia finally brought you inside the house. Get out while you can. Santino isn't just coming for his empire—he’s coming for the people Lorenzo cares about. And right now, he thinks you're the key to breaking him.
Before Hannah could process the warning, the heavy oak doors of the parlor slowly swung open.
May you like
Standing in the doorway, holding a silenced pistol aimed directly at her chest, was a man she had never seen before—smiling a cold, razor-thin smile.
“Well, well,” the man whispered, his Italian accent rich and deadly. “My cousin always did have an eye for stray dogs. Too bad you’re about to be put down.”
