Twenty acres of perfectly manicured lawns stretch toward the lake, interrupted by stands of oak trees that were old when Chicago was still a trading post.
“This arrangement is justice in its purest form,” I continue, watching a groundskeeper trim the hedges. “Antonio will spend every remaining day of his life knowing his daughter suffers because of his choices. Every smile I take from her face, every tear she sheds, every moment of happiness I steal, he’ll know it’s his fault.”
“And when you’re done with her?” Danny asks.
Ah, the age-old question.
What to do with Giuliana Conti?
I turn back to face Danny, letting him see the satisfaction in my expression.
“When I’m done with her, Antonio Conti will have watched his daughter suffer for every day of torment Marco endured. Onlythen will the debt be balanced. With her death.” I pick up a piece of paper and crush it in between my hands.
Danny’s phone buzzes against the leather of his holster. He checks the message then looks up at me. “Surveillance team reports she’s leaving the clinic ruins now. Katie Carmichael picked her up. They’re heading to Lincoln Park.” He pauses, reading more. “Team says she’s moving carefully. Holding her ribs. The friend looked alarmed when she saw her.”
“Good,” I say, returning to my desk. “Let the friend see what happens to people who interfere with my plans. Perhaps it will discourage her from any heroic ideas about helping.”
I sit down and sign the final page of the marriage contract with a fountain pen that once belonged to Al Capone himself—a gift from Viktor Torrino when we first began negotiating our territorial alliance. “Double the security at the safe house where we’re keeping Antonio. I don’t want him developing any heroic ideas about saving his daughter.”
The hours pass slowly as I review other business—territorial disputes that require mediation, legitimate enterprises that need oversight, the countless details that keep an organization like mine running smoothly.
But my attention keeps drifting to the clock.
The forty-eight-hour deadline approaches, and I find myself genuinely curious about her choice.
She wouldn’t be stupid enough to decline my generous offer. Would she?
At 11:43 p.m., my phone finally rings.
The caller ID shows the number I programmed two days ago.
I answer on the second ring, already savoring the victory that three years of planning have earned me.
“Giuliana,” I say, her name rolling off my tongue like wine I’ve been saving for a special occasion.
“I accept.” Her voice is hoarse, strained—probably from screaming in the warehouse, or perhaps from crying.
I can hear the pain when she breathes, a slight catch that suggests Dimitri’s boot did more damage than expected.
Good.
She hasn’t broken yet, merely bent to the inevitable.
That’s fine.
Breaking her will be a gradual process, and I have all the time in the world.
The satisfaction of a perfectly executed strategy settles over me like expensive cologne.
Every piece has moved exactly where I placed it.
Every contingency has been accounted for.
Every outcome has been calculated and prepared for.
“Wise choice,” I tell her, allowing just a hint of warmth to color my tone. The carrot before the stick, the illusion of mercy before the reality of captivity. “My driver will collect you tomorrow morning at eight sharp. Bring one suitcase. Everything else from your previous life stays behind.”
She doesn’t ask about her father or demand to know if he’s alive or being cared for.
