Elena Vitiello POV:
I pressed my thumb down on the green button and lifted the heavy black satellite phone to my ear. I held my breath. My chest was tight, my lungs burning slightly from the lack of oxygen. My mother had warned me on her deathbed that this phone was only for the moment the world began to collapse.
For a long second, there was only the faint, crackling hiss of static on the line. The tiny electronic sound made the massive study feel even more empty. I was completely isolated.
Then, a sharp, metallic click echoed through the speaker. The distinct sound of a heavy lighter flipping open.
"Is the Chicago trash cleaned up yet?"
It was a male voice. Deep, magnetic, and thick with a heavy New York accent. There was no greeting. No introduction. He spoke with the absolute authority of a man who was born at the top of the Cosa Nostra food chain.
My heart constricted, slamming hard against my ribs. "Who are you?"
He didn't answer my question. He didn't even acknowledge it.
"Your former guard dog is currently slumped against the wall, exactly three feet to the left of your double doors," the man said, his tone flat and bored.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. I lowered the phone slightly, walking across the thick Persian rug without making a sound. I pressed my eye to the peephole of the heavy oak doors.
Luca was there. He was sitting on the marble floor, his head in his hands, exactly where the voice said he was. The Chicago estate was supposed to be a fortress, but this man had eyes inside my walls.
A low chuckle vibrated through the phone speaker. It was a sound of absolute, arrogant confidence.
"His twelve million dollar debt has been acquired by New York," the voice said.
My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. I grew up in this world. I knew how the game was played. Nobody bought a twelve million dollar debt out of the goodness of their heart. Everything had a price.
"What do you want in return?" I asked, keeping my voice perfectly steady.
The line went quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, the coldness had pulled back, replaced by something heavier. Something almost protective.
"Just survive until you get to New York."
I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, but he cut me off.
"Sofia is meeting the Russians at midnight," he said. "Do you need me to send a team to dispose of them?"
My stomach dropped. I had just intercepted the audio file seconds ago, yet he already knew the details. He treated human lives like pieces of trash to be swept away.
"No," I said instantly. "This is my territory. She is my prey."
He went silent for two full seconds. I expected him to issue a command, to force his will on me like the men in my family always did.
"Good," he finally murmured. There was a trace of genuine approval in his tone. "I have prepared a gift for you."
I frowned, staring at the dark mahogany wood of my desk. "I don't need your charity."
I remembered the way my mother died, coughing up blood in a cold room because she had relied entirely on my father's nonexistent mercy. I would never be a dependent.
"It is not charity," he corrected, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "It is an engagement gift."
My eyes widened. I opened my mouth to reject the absurd claim, but a sudden, deafening mechanical roar drowned out my words. The heavy glass of my floor-to-ceiling windows began to rattle violently.
I walked to the window and looked out. The physical pressure of the sound hit my chest. A massive, black military-grade helicopter was circling the perimeter of the estate, its searchlights cutting through the dark Chicago sky.
"Sign for it personally tomorrow morning," he demanded over the noise of the rotor blades.
Before I could say another word, the line went dead. A flat dial tone buzzed in my ear.
I slowly lowered the phone, staring at the blank screen. My chest heaved up and down. My hands were shaking slightly, a confusing mix of hyper-vigilance and a strange, heavy sense of being protected.
Outside the study doors, Luca let out a sudden, desperate roar. I heard the dull thud of his fists pounding against the marble floor. He was completely broken.
I walked back to my desk, opened the bottom drawer, and placed the black satellite phone inside. I locked it and pocketed the key.
I sat down in my leather chair and shifted my attention back to the secondary monitor. I pulled up the live feed from the perimeter cameras. The time stamp read 11:45 PM.
On the screen, a small figure in a dark coat was creeping out of the west wing side door. It was Sofia.
I reached out and pressed the intercom button on my desk.
"Domenico," I said, my voice returning to ice.
"Yes, Miss," the guard captain answered immediately.
"Sofia is leaving through the west gate. Do not stop her. Let her out."
"Understood," Domenico replied. He paused for a second. "Miss, we just received word. A special shipment from New York will arrive at the main gates at dawn."
"I know," I said, terminating the connection.
I stood up and walked back to the window. I watched the tiny, blurry figure of Sofia disappearing into the dark, rainy streets on the monitors. My eyes were cold, completely drained of any lingering pity.
"Go make your trades in hell, you idiot."
