Chapter 4 - The Funeral of the Living
The news of Alexei Petrov's alleged death spread through the Chicago underworld like wildfire within twelve hours.
By seven o'clock the following evening, a heavy storm lashed against the windows of the lakefront estate. Inside the grand study, the heavy mahogany furniture had been pushed against the walls, creating an open arena lit only by the warm glow of the fireplace and two iron candelabras.
Sitting around a massive circular marble table in the center of the room were five men—the primary lieutenants of the Petrov syndicate, alongside Don Moretti, the sixty-year-old chief rival who had claimed a seat on the Chicago council.
Standing at the head of the table was Dmitri Volkov, his face a mask of grief and grim intensity.
"Alexei passed away at three o'clock this morning at Northwestern Memorial," Dmitri announced, his deep voice echoing off the high wood paneling. "The toxicological damage was too severe."
Don Moretti, a sharp-faced man dressed in a camel-hair coat, leaned back in his leather chair, a slow, arrogant smile spreading across his thin lips. He twirled a heavy gold signet ring on his pinky finger.
"A tragic loss for Chicago, Volkov," Moretti said smoothly, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Alexei was a strong man. But an empire cannot survive without a head. Under the 1988 council agreement, his shipping terminals in South Chicago default to the coalition until a permanent successor is named."
"The shipping terminals remain under Petrov control," Dmitri countered flatly, stepping closer to the table.
Moretti let out a cold, mocking laugh. "With what army, Volkov? Your boss is in a morgue. Your security team is fractured. You have no bloodline heir to claim the estate."
"He has me," a deep, thunderous voice called out from the dark balcony above the study.
The entire room froze.
Don Moretti’s smile evaporated in a single second. The four lieutenants gasped, jumping up from their chairs so fast two glasses of scotch spilled onto the marble floor.
Slowly, deliberately, Alexei Petrov stepped out from the shadows of the upper gallery.
He wore his signature fitted black shirt and dark trousers. Though his face was still slightly pale from the hospital, his tall, broad frame radiated a terrifying, lethal authority that made the air in the room drop ten degrees into liquid ice.
Alexei descended the grand mahogany staircase, his polished shoes clicking rhythmically against the steps.
"Alexei..." Moretti stammered, his face turning as white as a sheet as he backed away from the marble table. "This... this is impossible! The hospital report confirmed total heart failure!"
"The hospital report was written by my men, Moretti," Alexei said, stopping five feet from the rival boss.
Alexei reached into his pocket, pulling out a small glass vial containing a drop of the clear, bitter liquid that had nearly taken his life twenty-four hours ago. He set it gently on the marble table between them.
"You paid my bodyguard fifty thousand dollars to drop this into my espresso," Alexei said, his voice quiet, rough, and dangerous. "You thought you could buy my house while I was sleeping."
Moretti reached frantically for his coat pocket, but before his hand could reach his shoulder holster, Dmitri moved like a striking predator, grabbing Moretti's arm and twisting it back until the bone cracked with a sharp snap.
Moretti shrieked in agony, falling onto his knees on the carpet.
Alexei didn't even flinch. He looked at the four remaining lieutenants sitting around the table, his blue-gray eyes burning with absolute, terrifying resolve.
"Does anyone else on this council wish to claim my shipping routes?" Alexei asked softly.
The four lieutenants bowed their heads in immediate, absolute surrender. "No, Boss. Never."
Alexei turned back to Moretti, who was grovelling on the floor under Dmitri's grip. "Take him to the harbor basement. He stays there until the federal prosecutor arrives at dawn."
As Dmitri's men dragged the screaming rival boss out of the study, the heavy double oak doors at the back of the hall opened quietly.
Alina stood in the doorway, holding four-year-old Sophie by her hand. Alina’s eyes were wide with shock, her hands trembling as she looked at the man who had just commanded an entire syndicate with a single sentence.
Alexei turned his head, his cold, terrifying demeanor melting away the moment his eyes landed on the mother and child.
He walked over to them, dropping to one knee before little Sophie.
"Did I scare you, little doctor?" Alexei asked softly, his deep voice carrying a genuine warmth that stunned every bodyguard remaining in the room.
May you like
Sophie looked at him with her sweet, wide brown eyes, reaching out her small hand to pat his dark hair. "No. You're strong now."
Alexei looked up at Alina, his gaze locking onto her warm, beautiful face. "You and your daughter stay in the master suite from now on, Alina. You are no longer staff in this house."
