Chapter 9 - THE RIDE TO CICERO
Twenty minutes later, the heavy iron security gates of the Moretti estate swung open into the freezing Chicago rain.
A convoy of three jet-black, armored luxury SUVs rolled out onto the wet asphalt, their powerful V8 engines purring with a low, predatory rumble. Their tinted windows reflected the streetlights as they accelerated toward the West Side highway, cutting through the storm with relentless, unstoppable momentum.
In the master suite of the estate, Sophie sat on a soft velvet sofa in front of a roaring fireplace, wrapped in a warm wool blanket, happily eating a bowl of vanilla ice cream while two gentle female staff members read her a storybook.
In the lead black SUV, Lorenzo Moretti sat in the rear leather captain's chair.
He had replaced his overcoat with a dark charcoal leather jacket over his black suit. Beside him on the leather seat lay a sleek, black leather folder containing the complete financial ledgers and property titles of Jimmy Russo's Cicero operation.
In the front passenger seat, Marco checked the magazine of his sidearm before sliding it back into his shoulder holster.
"Russo is currently at his private club on 22nd Street, boss," Marco reported, looking back through the partition. "He has eight men inside. He thinks he's collecting from three local business owners tonight."
Lorenzo didn't look up from his phone. He was staring at a high-resolution photo on his screen—a photo of Elena’s broken apartment door, showing the splintered wood and the small pink blanket lying on the floor nearby.
"Don't shoot anyone outside, Marco," Lorenzo commanded, his voice cold, flat, and razor-sharp. "I want Russo alive when I walk into that room. I want him to understand exactly whose house he tried to burn."
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"Understood, Don Lorenzo," Marco replied quietly.
The SUV accelerated into the dark, rain-swept highway, its red taillights slicing through the gray Chicago whiteout like blades of fire.
