Chapter 11
The underground garage was suffocatingly quiet. The low, guttural hum of the armored SUVs vibrated against the cold concrete walls. Stallone stood perfectly still, his dark eyes locked onto the rear of the third vehicle. His men, seasoned killers who had survived the most brutal gang wars of the decade, moved with lethal efficiency. Four guards flanked the vehicle, their suppressed weapons raised and aimed steadily at the heavy rear door.
"Open it," Stallone repeated, his voice dangerously calm.
One of the men reached out, grabbing the thick handle of the trunk. With a heavy, metallic clank, the reinforced door swung upward. The dim fluorescent light of the garage spilled into the dark cargo space.
Stallone stepped forward, his leather shoes silent against the concrete. He peered into the trunk, expecting an explosive device or the severed head of an informant. Instead, the cargo space contained a single, small wooden crate, barely larger than a shoebox. It was sealed with heavy steel hinges and a heavy brass padlock.
"Check for wires," Stallone ordered.
A guard quickly swept the crate with a handheld electronic scanner, running it along the seams and the padlock. He shook his head. "No explosives, Boss. No electronics. It’s clean."
Stallone walked up to the bumper. He reached out and grabbed the brass padlock. It wasn't locked. He pulled the heavy metal loop, discarding the lock onto the concrete floor. Slowly, he lifted the wooden lid of the crate.
Inside, resting on a bed of faded red velvet, was a gold pocket watch. It was antique, its casing heavily scratched and stained with dark, dried blood.
Stallone felt the air leave his lungs. The legendary Mafia Boss, a man who had just dismantled an empire without blinking, froze completely. He recognized the watch instantly. It had belonged to his younger brother, Vincent, who was supposed to have died alongside him in the warehouse fire ten years ago. Vincent’s body was never recovered from the ashes.
"Boss?" one of the guards asked tentatively, noticing the sudden rigidity in Stallone's broad shoulders.
Stallone slowly reached into the crate and picked up the watch. The cold metal bit into his calloused palm. Beneath the watch, a small, neatly folded piece of white paper rested on the velvet. Stallone picked it up and unfolded it. The message was handwritten in sharp, elegant black ink.
He didn't burn, Sylvester. He bled. And he is still bleeding. You have twenty-four hours to return the Cross assets, or I will start mailing him back to you in pieces.
May you like
Stallone crushed the note in his fist. The triumphant reclamation of his empire had instantly turned into a nightmare. His brother was alive, held captive by a ghost from the past, and the game had just been reset.
"Get in the cars," Stallone growled, his voice vibrating with a terrifying, absolute fury. "We are going to war."
