Chapter 3 - Blood and Betrayal in the Penthouse
Outside the steel vault, the penthouse had transformed into a war zone.
Vincent moved through the shadows of his own living room like an apex predator. He didn't care about the million-dollar art collection or the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the stormy park. He cared about one thing: the traitor under his roof.
A shadow shifted behind the curved wet bar.
“You always did have terrible taste in interior design, nephew,” a voice chuckled softly.
Uncle Simon stepped out from the gloom. He was an older man, impeccably dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, leaning heavily on an ebony cane with a solid silver wolf’s head handle. Behind him stood two heavy enforcers holding assault rifles.
“You sent a child to die in an alley, Simon,” Vincent said coldly, his pistol leveled at his uncle’s chest. “He is your blood.”
“Blood is a messy business, Vincent,” Simon sighed, tapping his cane against the marble floor. “You grew soft. Ever since your wife died, you’ve been playing corporate executive instead of a syndicate boss. You let the cops sniff around our shipping lines; you let the Outfit’s margins shrink. The board—and the families—agreed. It was time for a change in management.”
“The board is dead,” Vincent replied flatly. “And you are next.”
Simon smiled, raising his hand. “Am I? Check your phone, nephew.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened. He didn't look down. He knew.
“Every bank account tied to your legitimate holdings has been frozen by federal warrants,” Simon sneered, taking a step forward. “Your guards downstairs were paid off hours ago. By morning, the FBI will raid this penthouse, and you will be sitting in a supermax prison for a lifetime. All because of a little poison in a seven-year-old’s juice box.”
“You poisoned my son,” Vincent whispered. The quiet fury in his voice made even Simon’s enforcers hesitate.
“He was becoming a liability. Just like you,” Simon spat. “Now, drop the gun, Vincent. Or I burn this entire building down with you and your little waitress inside.”
Simon raised his own hand, signaling his men to open fire.
But before the first trigger could be pulled, the ambient emergency lighting flickered back on.
The security monitor mounted near the kitchen didn't show federal agents. It showed something far worse for Simon.
The private security feeds from the underground garage and perimeter gates flickered to life. Every single one of Simon’s loyalist enforcers—the men guarding the elevators, the men stationed in the lobby—were lying face-down on the concrete, zip-tied and disarmed.
Standing over them, smoking a cigar with casual indifference, was Mateo ‘The Butcher’ Rossi—the legendary head of the Chicago coalition whom Vincent had flown in secretly two hours prior, before the blackout even hit.
Simon’s face drained of color. “No... that’s impossible. Rossi is in Chicago.”
“Chicago is only a two-hour flight, Uncle,” Vincent said smoothly. “And unlike you, my alliances aren't built on backstabbing and cheap poison.”
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Before Simon could swing his silver cane, Vincent lunged. The sound of bone breaking echoed through the penthouse as Vincent disarmed his uncle with brutal efficiency, slamming the older man onto the marble floor and pinning him with a heavy boot to his chest.
“It’s over, Simon,” Vincent growled, pressing the barrel of his gun against his uncle’s forehead.
