Chapter 1 - The Ledger of Blood and Bread
Dante Caruso sat in the cavernous silence of his armored town car, the city lights of Chicago blurring into streaks of neon against the rain-slicked glass. The memory of the little girl on the wooden stool played on a relentless, agonizing loop in his mind. Wanting a thing isn't the same as needing it. The sheer resignation in a five-year-old’s voice was a heavier blow than any rival's bullet he had ever taken.
He pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his tailored suit and hit a single speed-dial number. It was answered on the first ring.
“Boss,” Enzo’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and alert despite the late hour.
“I want to know exactly what we are paying Maria Silva,” Dante’s voice was dangerously quiet, a low rumble that always preceded absolute devastation in the Chicago underworld.
“Maria? The new housekeeper?” Enzo paused, the sound of keyboard clacking echoing through the line. “She’s on the premium estate payroll, boss. Four thousand a week, plus benefits. It’s hazard pay for working inside the compound.”
Dante’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. Four thousand dollars a week, yet her child was splitting a single piece of flatbread and drinking lemon water for dinner. Someone was bleeding them dry.
“Find out where her money is going, Enzo,” Dante ordered, the frost in his tone dropping the temperature in the car. “I want to know if it’s a landlord, a loan shark, or a ghost from her past. And Enzo?”
“Yes, Boss?”
“Whoever is taking food from that little girl's mouth... make sure they understand they just stole from me.”
Within three hours, Enzo had the file. Maria’s late husband, the smiling man in the photograph, hadn't just been a construction worker. He had been a degenerate gambler who died owing seventy thousand dollars to the Romanov syndicate—a brutal Russian faction operating on the south side. For the past year, the Romanovs had been extorting Maria, taking ninety percent of her paycheck under the threat of burning her apartment down with her daughter inside.
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Dante stared at the file on his massive mahogany desk. He didn't just feel anger; he felt a cold, calculated wrath. He reached into his desk drawer, pulling out his suppressed customized tactical pistol.
The Romanovs were about to learn a very painful lesson about greed.
