Chapter 2
Ten blocks from her apartment, the taxi shuddered violently as a massive, matte-black Cadillac Escalade slammed broadside into the passenger door, sending the vehicle spinning across three lanes of wet asphalt until it crashed hard against a concrete pillar beneath the elevated train tracks. The windows shattered into a million sparkling diamonds. Elena gasped, pain searing through her shoulder as she hit the dashboard. Before she could push herself up, the rear door was yanked open with terrifying force. A pair of scarred, brutal hands grabbed her by the jacket and hauled her out into the freezing downpour like she weighed nothing at all.
“Got her,” a raspy, unfamiliar voice growled into a tactical comms unit.
Two men in dark tactical gear flanked her, their shoulders bearing the unmistakable brand of Desmond Ashford’s Irish faction. They didn't care about the wrecked cab or the terrified civilian driver; they only cared about the woman who held the cryptographic keys to every offshore shell company the Ricci family owned. They shoved Elena into the back of the waiting Escalade, slamming the heavy reinforced doors shut as the vehicle surged forward into the dark, rain-swept alleys of the South Side.
“Well, well, well,” purred a cold, cultured British voice from the dimly lit back seat. A tall, impeccably dressed man with sharp silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses leaned forward, resting his manicured hands on the head of an ebony cane. Desmond Ashford. “The famous accountant who keeps the Ricci empire afloat. You’re even more magnificent in person, Miss Bruno. Pity your employer didn't appreciate your true value.”
Elena kept her chin high, wiping a streak of blood from her forehead with the back of her sleeve. “You’re wasting your time, Ashford. I wiped the primary servers before I left the building. You won't find a single routing number or Swiss account.”
Ashford chuckled softly, a dry, grating sound. “My dear girl, I don't need your servers. I have methods of persuasion that make even Domenico Ricci look like a Sunday school teacher. By sunrise, you will give me every password, every vault combination, and every name on his payroll.”
The Escalade sped through the labyrinth of industrial warehouses near the Calumet River, heading straight toward Ashford’s primary interrogation facility—an abandoned meatpacking plant reeking of iron and decay. But as they turned onto the gravel access road, the headlights illuminated an impossible sight. Parked directly across the narrow gateway was a single, matte-black Mercedes Maybach. Leaning casually against the hood in the pouring rain, refusing to hold an umbrella, stood Domenico Ricci.
He wore his charcoal suit, his broad shoulders squared, an unlit Cuban cigar clamped between his teeth. He looked less like a man ambushed and more like an executioner waiting for his appointment to arrive.
The driver of Ashford’s Escalade slammed on the brakes, cursing loudly as the SUV skidded to a halt twenty feet from the Maybach. Ashford’s face drained of its smug color. “What is the meaning of this?”
Domenico slowly pushed off the hood of his car. He didn't pull a gun; he didn't call for backup. He simply reached inside his coat and pulled out a heavy gold lighter, snapping the lid open with a sharp clink, igniting the cigar in the damp air.
“You stepped onto my turf, Desmond,” Domenico’s voice carried effortlessly across the wet gravel, cold and absolute. “And more importantly... you touched what belongs to me.”
Before Ashford could scream an order for his men to open fire, the surrounding darkness erupted. From the shadows of the rusted grain silos, thirty Ricci syndicate enforcers opened up with synchronized, suppressive fire, shooting out the Escalade’s tires and shattering every window in a storm of shattering glass and flying lead. The doors of the SUV were ripped open from the outside, and Ashford’s guards were dragged onto the mud before they could even unholster their sidearms.
Domenico walked slowly toward the back door of Ashford’s vehicle, ignoring the pouring rain that plastered his dark hair to his forehead. He pulled the door open, his dark eyes locking onto a trembling Desmond Ashford, and then shifted downward to look at Elena, who sat trapped inside in absolute shock.
May you like
Domenico extended a large, steady, scarred hand toward her.
“Get out of the car, Elena,” he said softly, the raw, consuming hunger in his voice finally breaking through all her logical defenses. “We are going home.”
