Chapter 7
The tension in the sub-basement garage was a suffocating physical weight. Behind the heavy concrete pillar, Hannah squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the terrifying silence that had followed the suppressed gunshots. She felt Sophia’s tiny hands gripping the collar of her mint-green service dress, the child’s breathing fast and shallow.
"It's okay, sweetheart," Hannah whispered, her warm face pressing gently against Sophia’s curly golden-brown hair. "Your daddy is going to protect us. He's a very strong man."
Across the dark expanse of concrete, Luca Moretti was hunting. He glided through the faint red glow of the emergency lights, his thick dark brown hair slicked back, his sharp masculine jawline set in a mask of pure concentration. He could hear Marcus’s rapid, panicked breathing echoing softly near a parked luxury sedan. The head of security had lost his tactical advantage and his nerve.
"Luca, let's talk about this!" Marcus called out, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of his earlier bravado. "We can make a deal! I have money offshore! I can leave Chicago tonight!"
"You opened the door to my daughter's nursery, Marcus," Luca replied, his voice drifting like a ghost from the shadows, impossible to pinpoint. "You let armed men walk into the room where my infant child was sleeping. There is no deal. There is no offshore account that can buy your life."
Marcus panicked. He blindly raised his weapon and fired three loud, unsuppressed shots into the darkness. The deafening cracks echoed violently off the concrete walls, the muzzle flashes illuminating the garage in strobing, cinematic bursts of yellow light.
Hannah screamed softly, curling her plus-sized frame tighter around Sophia as the gunshots rang out.
The muzzle flashes were exactly what Luca was waiting for. In the brief illumination, he pinpointed Marcus’s exact location crouching behind the sedan.
Luca moved with terrifying, explosive speed. He didn't fire from a distance; he wanted to look the traitor in the eyes. In a fluid, cinematic motion, Luca sprinted across the gap, his tailored black suit blending with the darkness. Before Marcus could adjust his aim, Luca was upon him.
With a brutal, precise strike of his forearm, Luca knocked the weapon entirely out of Marcus’s hand. It clattered uselessly across the concrete floor. Luca grabbed Marcus by the lapels of his dark suit, his heavily tattooed forearms flexing with immense, terrifying power, and slammed the traitor violently against the hood of the sedan.
Marcus gasped for air, his eyes wide with absolute, primal terror as he stared up into Luca’s piercing, intense eyes.
"Please!" Marcus begged, his hands scrabbling uselessly against Luca’s iron grip.
"You said I went soft because I grieved my wife," Luca whispered, his face inches from Marcus’s, his light stubble scraping against his collar. "You are going to find out exactly how hard I can be."
Luca did not use a gun. With a cold, calculated efficiency, he delivered a precise, devastating strike to the nerve cluster on the side of Marcus’s neck. It wasn't graphic, and there was no blood, but the impact was absolute. Marcus’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went entirely limp, collapsing onto the concrete floor like a discarded ragdoll.
Luca stood over the unconscious traitor, his chest heaving slightly, his open-collar black shirt pristine. The immediate threat was neutralized.
"Hannah," Luca called out, his voice returning to a steady, commanding calmness. "It's over. Come to the car."
From behind the pillar, Hannah stepped out into the dim red light. She was trembling violently, her white apron wrinkled, but her warm face was filled with awe. She carried Sophia across the garage, her pale-yellow shoes dangling safely, until they reached Luca’s massive armored SUV.
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Luca pulled a heavy set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the doors. "Get inside. Both of you."
Hannah climbed into the spacious, leather-scented interior of the back seat, securing Sophia safely in her lap. Luca slammed the heavy, bulletproof door shut behind them, sealing them in a fortress of steel and glass, before walking around to the driver's side. The worst of the night was over, but the war for Chicago had only just begun.
