Chapter 5 - The Master of the North Side
Victor Rossi’s sprawling lakefront estate in Winnetka looked like a fortress from the outside, surrounded by wrought-iron fences, motion-activated security cameras, and armed patrols.
At 4:00 AM, those security measures failed entirely.
The front gates didn't open—they were plowed down by a black SUV moving at forty miles per hour. The heavy steel pillars crumpled like tin foil as Vincent’s vehicle roared up the paved driveway and slammed to a halt directly in front of the grand double mahogany doors of the mansion.
Before the estate guards could even draw their sidearms, the doors of the SUV flew open. Vincent stepped out, followed by Tony and four heavily armed enforcers dragging two bound assassins behind them.
"Mr. Torino!" the head of security yelled, leveling a shotgun. "You can't just—"
Tony raised his own rifle and fired a single, deafening shot directly into the security camera above the door. Glass rained down like sleet.
"Lower the gun unless you want to join your friends in the trunk," Tony snapped.
The security guard swallowed hard, lowering the shotgun.
Vincent didn't wait for an invitation. He walked up the stone steps, raised his right boot, and kicked the heavy mahogany double doors so hard the reinforced deadbolts sheared right out of the frame. The doors crashed open inside the foyer, echoing through the silent, opulent mansion.
Upstairs, a light flickered on.
Heavy footsteps hurried down the curved marble staircase. Victor Rossi appeared in a silk bathrobe, his gray hair wild, clutching a .38 revolver in his right hand. His face was twisted in a mixture of fury and absolute disbelief.
"Vincent Torino?!" Rossi roared, waving his pistol unsteadily. "Have you lost your damn mind? What the hell do you think you're doing breaking into my home?"
Vincent walked slowly across the imported Persian rug, his boots leaving faint tracks of mud and dried blood. He didn't stop until he stood ten feet away from the aging syndicate boss.
"You sent men to St. Gabriel’s tonight, Victor," Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
Rossi’s eyes flickered for a fraction of a second—a tiny tell that didn't escape Vincent’s notice.
"I don't know what you're talking about! You're trespassing! Get out of my house before—"
Vincent crossed the remaining distance in a blur. Before Rossi could raise his revolver, Vincent grabbed his wrist, twisted it upward with brutal efficiency, and slammed Rossi’s hand against the carved wooden banister.
Clack!
The revolver dropped to the floor, sliding across the marble tiles.
Rossi gasped in pain, his face turning purple. "You're crazy! You're going to start a war over some random woman in a hospital?"
"She's not a random woman," Vincent snarled, pressing his forearm against Rossi’s throat. "And she had a ledger from the 1995 warehouse fire. A fire you set to cover up your theft from the syndicate vaults. A fire where Maria Bellini supposedly died."
Rossi’s eyes bulged. The color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse in a silk bathrobe.
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"You... you found her?" Rossi choked out.
"I found her daughter," Vincent corrected, his voice dropping to a low, lethal hum. "And now I'm going to find out every single lie you told thirty years ago. Starting with what happened to Maria."
