Chapter 14 - Blood in the winter garden
The Bishop’s motorcade had barely cleared the estate gates when the storm hit Chicago. Heavy rain lashed against the tall glass windows of the estate's winter garden, an enclosed conservatory filled with exotic palms, marble fountains, and stone pathways at the rear of the mansion.
Vincent stood by the glass walls, a glass of bourbon untouched in his hand. He wasn't thinking about the storm outside. He was thinking about the timing. Rossi had come fishing, which meant Rossi didn't have the locker key yet. But it also meant Rossi knew the secret was hidden somewhere inside the Delgado family.
Frank approached quietly from behind, carrying a tactical submachine gun slung across his chest.
"I moved Alina and Mia into the reinforced panic room beneath the library," Frank reported quietly. "Double steel doors, separate air filtration, completely off the blueprints. If anyone brings heavy ordinance, they won't even find the door."
"Good," Vincent said without turning. "Because tonight won't end with a polite dinner conversation. Rossi is too old to wait, and too arrogant to believe I'd kill him without Commission approval."
Suddenly, the lights throughout the entire estate flickered once, twice, and then plunged into total darkness.
The heavy thrum of the backup generators failed to kick in.
"Main breaker was cut at the substation outside the perimeter," Frank cursed, flipping down his night-vision goggles. "They took out the secondary lines too. Boss, this isn't a hit squad. This is a military breach."
A muffled *thump* echoed from the courtyard, followed by the distinctive hiss of smoke canisters being fired through the shattered glass dome of the winter garden above them.
Glass rained down like jagged ice onto the marble floor.
"Move!" Vincent roared, drawing his customized .45 caliber pistol and pulling Frank behind the shelter of a thick marble fountain as automatic gunfire erupted from the shadows above.
Muzzle flashes illuminated the lush green palms in violent, staccato bursts. Three figures in matte-black tactical gear rappelled down from the shattered steel framework of the greenhouse ceiling. They moved with terrifying precision—not the sloppy street thugs Chicago bosses usually hired, but trained mercenaries operating with silent hand signals.
Vincent leaned around the edge of the fountain, firing two controlled shots. The lead mercenary collapsed instantly, his rifle skittering across the wet marble.
Frank returned fire with a vicious burst, suppressing the second gunman who scrambled behind a concrete planter.
"They aren't aiming for the main house!" Frank yelled over the deafening echoes of gunfire. "They’re securing the perimeter around the conservatory! They're trying to pin us down while another team breaches the basement!"
Vincent's blood ran cold. *The panic room.*
Ignoring the hail of bullets chipping chunks of marble off their cover, Vincent lunged forward across the slick floor, rolling behind an overturned bronze bench and firing upward into the chest of the third climber still hanging from his rope. The mercenary fell like a stone, crashing heavily into a bed of ferns.
Vincent sprinted to the fallen man, ripped off his tactical helmet, and yanked open the collar of his combat vest.
Tattooed across the base of the mercenary’s throat was a black crest: an eagle gripping a broken dagger.
"It’s not Rossi's men," Vincent breathed, his eyes wide with dark realization. "This is the Black Orchard. The southern syndicate Marco fought against before he ever came to Chicago."
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Frank caught up to him, changing magazines with rapid efficiency. "If the Orchard is in Chicago, Vincent, it means someone sold us out at the highest level of the Commission. Rossi wasn't just fishing—he was distracting you while they landed their strike team."
"They don't want the money," Vincent said, sprinting toward the interior corridor that led to the library. "They want the girl. Mia is the only living bloodline that holds the claim."
