Chapter 14 - The Poisoned Toast
As the gala progressed into the late evening, the atmosphere in the grand ballroom was one of celebratory triumph. Yet, in the high-stakes world of the Chicago Outfit, peace was merely a brief intermission between wars.
At ten o’clock, Dante Russo approached Lorenzo near the terrace doors, his expression tightening as he leaned into his Don’s ear.
“Boss,” Dante muttered low enough that Elena, who was speaking with a federal judge's wife two yards away, wouldn't hear. “We have a situation at the outer gate. A courier just delivered a package addressed to you. Personal delivery. The guards scanned it—no explosives, no chemical agents. Just a wooden box and a letter.”
Lorenzo’s amber eyes hardened instantly. He handed his champagne flute to a passing waiter and nodded toward the hallway leading to his private study. “Keep Elena and Leo in the ballroom. Surround them with the inner circle. Don't let them out of your sight.”
In the quiet sanctuary of the private study, Lorenzo stood over the massive mahogany desk. Sitting in the center of the leather blotter was a polished cedar wood box, approximately ten inches long, sealed with black wax stamped with an unfamiliar insignia—a coiled serpent surrounded by a crown of thorns.
Dante stood by the door, his hand resting on his sidearm. “The courier was an independent contractor from New York. He said he was paid ten thousand dollars in cash to deliver this precisely at ten p.m. tonight.”
Lorenzo broke the black wax seal with his thumb and lifted the lid of the cedar box.
Inside, resting on a bed of crimson velvet, was a silver pocket watch. It was antique, its casing dented and stained with dark, dried blood that had permanently discolored the metal. Next to the watch was a single sheet of heavy parchment paper bearing a handwritten message in sharp, aggressive calligraphy.
Lorenzo picked up the watch. His breath caught in his throat. He turned it over in his palm, his thumb tracing the initials engraved into the back casing: M. V.
It was Matteo’s watch. The watch Matteo had been wearing on the night his armored sedan was ambushed outside Milwaukee five years ago.
Lorenzo set the watch down with a trembling hand and picked up the parchment paper. His eyes scanned the text, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth groaned against each other.
Victor Thorne was merely the housekeeper who left the back door unlocked, Lorenzo.
We took your brother’s life in Milwaukee five years ago. We took your uncle’s life fifteen years ago. And while you celebrate with your high-society friends tonight, remember that blood debts do not expire with the death of an errand boy.
Enjoy the boy while you can. A Vance born in the gutter will eventually die in the gutter.
— The Commission, New York.
The silence in the study was absolute, broken only by the steady, rhythmic ticking of Matteo’s blood-stained pocket watch on the desk.
“What is it, boss?” Dante asked, stepping forward to look at the letter. When he read the signature at the bottom, Dante’s scarred face paled. “The New York Commission... They were the ones funding Thorne? They were the ones who ordered Matteo’s hit?”
“They want Chicago,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a glacial, terrifying register that sounded like grinding tectonic plates. “They thought killing Matteo would break me. They thought Thorne’s betrayal would finish us. Now they know the heir is alive, and they’re sending me a warning to step down before they launch a full-scale federal war against our corridors.”
May you like
Lorenzo picked up Matteo’s watch, gripping it in his palm until the cold silver cut into his skin. He looked up at Dante, his amber eyes burning with a cold, calculated fury that would soon set the entire eastern seaboard on fire.
“Tell the captains to lock down the city,” Lorenzo ordered softly. “And tell the pilots to fuel the private jet. We’re going to New York.”
