Chapter 8 - The Vanguard of Vengeance
Back in the snowy courtyard, the smoke had cleared, leaving behind the acrid scent of cordite and burnt rubber.
Viktor Vance sat on his knees in the middle of the driveway, his hands zip-tied tightly behind his back, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead down onto the melting snow. Four of my enforcers stood guard around him with rifles raised.
I stepped out of the grand front entrance, my boots crunching softly on the fresh snow.
Viktor looked up, his jaw set in a defiant, blood-stained sneer.
“You always were a slippery little rat, Lorenzo,” Viktor spat, blood flecking his lips. “We should have made sure we got you out of that culvert fifteen years ago.”
I walked up slowly, stopping two feet away from him, looking down at the man who had ordered the murder of my entire family.
“You tried, Viktor,” I said evenly. “And look where it got you. Your men are captured, your paymasters are running out of time, and you’re kneeling in the snow on my property.”
“Go ahead,” Viktor laughed bitterly, throwing his head back. “Kill me. Pull the trigger. It won’t bring your father back. It won’t rebuild your burned-down estate. The syndicate is bigger than you, Lorenzo. Even if you wipe us out tonight, another head will grow back tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” I replied, pulling my Sig Sauer from its holster and releasing the safety with a sharp click. “But it won't be your head.”
Before Viktor could flinch, I brought the butt of the pistol down hard across the side of his skull with bone-cracking force.
Viktor let out a muffled grunt and collapsed unconscious onto the snowy asphalt.
I handed the pistol to Marcus, who stepped up beside me.
“Tie him to the front gate,” I commanded coldly. “Let his bosses in downtown Chicago look out their office windows tomorrow morning and see what happens when they send their trash to my doorstep.”
“Done,” Marcus nodded, signaling two enforcers to haul the unconscious mercenary away.
I stood alone in the center of the courtyard for a long moment, looking up at the clear winter night sky. The stars were brilliant, cold, and indifferent to the bloodshed below.
For fifteen years, my life had been defined by a single night of fire and ash. Every breath I took, every dollar I made, every enemy I crushed—it had all been building toward this moment.
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The men who destroyed my family were broken. The traitor within my walls was exposed and cast out.
And the girl who had pulled me from the drainage culvert fifteen years ago was finally safe under my roof, no longer hiding in the shadows, no longer running from ghosts.
