Years After Abandoning the Woman Who Loved Him Most, the Mafia Boss Found Her Dying Alone in a Hospital

The Chicago River was black as ink beneath the towering steel superstructure of the Michigan Avenue Bridge. Rain whipped the water into white foam as the clock on the Wrigley Building struck five-forty-five in the morning.

Two black suburbans sat parked on the lower level of Wacker Drive, their engines humming quietly in the mist.

Lorenzo Moretti stood near the edge of the riverwall, wearing an oiled leather trench coat, binoculars pressed to his eyes as he watched the commercial barge anchored beneath the bridge supports. Beside him stood four men armed with FN SCAR assault rifles, their tactical headsets glowing with faint blue status lights.

"Detonators are set on spans three and four, Boss," one of the men reported, tapping a ruggedized tablet. "If Russo tries to move his convoys across the river to the Lake Forest estate, we drop the entire span into the shipping channel."

"He won't move his convoys," Lorenzo said, lowering the binoculars with a cold, cruel grin. "Dominic is a sentimental fool. He's sitting by that girl's bedside right now, crying over spilled milk. Just like his father did before we put him in the ground."

"Are you sure about that, Lorenzo?"

A voice spoke from the shadows beneath the bridge abutment.

Lorenzo spun around, reaching for the custom Kimber .45 holstered at his hip, his men instantly swinging their rifles toward the darkness.

Out of the pouring rain walked Dominic Russo.

He wasn't wearing a tactical vest. He wasn't holding a rifle. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his hands resting casually inside his pockets, walking alone down the slick concrete incline.

"Dominic," Lorenzo chuckled, relaxing slightly, though his men kept their weapons trained on Dominic's chest. "You came alone? To negotiate? After what happened to your little pet at the hospital?"

"I didn't come to negotiate, Lorenzo," Dominic said, stopping ten paces away. The streetlights overhead caught the cold, predatory gleam in his steel-gray eyes. "I came to tell you that your detonators don't work."

Lorenzo's smile vanished. He glanced sharply at the technician holding the tablet.

The technician frantically swiped at the screen. "Boss... signal's dead. The bridge receivers aren't responding. The whole frequency is jammed!"

"You're using military gear, Lorenzo," Dominic explained calmly, taking one step forward. "My father funded the defense contractor that wrote the encryption code for those transmitters twenty years ago. Did you really think you could buy military surplus in Gary, Indiana, without my people knowing every serial number?"

"Kill him!" Lorenzo roared, drawing his weapon.

Before any of the four mercenaries could pull a trigger, the dark water of the Chicago River erupted.

Four divers from Dominic’s elite maritime security team broke the surface, armed with suppressed submachine guns. In a synchronized volley of fire, the four mercenaries collapsed onto the concrete before their rifles could even level.

Lorenzo stepped backward, his boots sliding in the blood and rain, his pistol trembling as he aimed it square at Dominic’s forehead.

"Stay back!" Lorenzo screamed, panic finally cracking through his arrogant facade. "I have fifty men stationed at the downtown compound! I have Sofia! The treaty—"

"The treaty died the night you ran Fiona off the road," Dominic said, closing the distance without breaking stride.

Lorenzo fired.

Dominic shifted his weight, the heavy round tearing through the meat of his left shoulder, spinning him slightly. But Dominic didn't fall. The pain was nothing—a dull, distant spark compared to the five years of burning guilt that had consumed his soul.

Dominic lunged forward, closing the remaining distance in a heartbeat. His right hand locked around Lorenzo's wrist, twisting the bone until the joint popped with a sickening snap. Lorenzo dropped the weapon, screaming in agony.

Dominic didn't stop. He drove his elbow into Lorenzo's throat, sweeping his legs out from under him, slamming the rival boss hard against the wet concrete edge of the riverwall.

Dominic pressed his knee into Lorenzo's chest, his fingers locking around the man's throat, forcing Lorenzo's head over the freezing, churning black water below.

"You mentioned my son tonight, Lorenzo," Dominic whispered, his face inches from Moretti's bulging, terrified eyes. "You said you were going to wipe my bloodline off the earth."

"Dominic... please..." Lorenzo choked out, his fingernails clawing uselessly at Dominic's iron grip. "The families... the families will go to war..."

"There are no families anymore," Dominic said softly. "There's only mine."

With a single, violent motion, Dominic heaved Lorenzo Moretti over the concrete barrier.

A sharp splash echoed from the dark water below. The freezing, heavy undercurrent of the Chicago River swallowed the screaming man instantly, dragging him down beneath the steel hull of the commercial barge.

Dominic stood up slowly, pressing his right hand against his bleeding shoulder. Rain washed the blood from his fingers, swirling into the storm drains.

Behind him, Rocco stepped out of the shadows, accompanied by six armed enforcers. "Boss. It's done. Carmela Salvatore just took control of the Moretti assets downtown. The war is over."

Dominic looked out over the skyline of Chicago—the glittering skyscrapers, the bridges, the concrete empire his father had built with blood and extortion.

"Rocco," Dominic said quietly, without turning around.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Call Carmela. Tell her the city is hers."

Rocco blinked in utter shock. "Boss? You're giving her the empire?"