Chapter 3 - The Blood in the Snow
By Thursday, the winter storm had turned the city into a frozen grid of sludge and grey ice. The estate sat atop a hill in Lake Forest, guarded by a ten-foot wrought-iron fence, motion sensors, and eight armed guards disguised as private security contractors.
Luke entered my office at 8:00 PM, his dark coat dusted with snow. He poured himself two fingers of bourbon from the crystal decanter on my desk without asking.
"The Commission is getting restless, Danny," he said, taking a slow sip. "Salvatore keeps asking why you haven't attended a dinner in six months. He's floating rumors that the sniper hit more than just your spine."
I didn't look up from the ledger books detailing our shipping logistics through the Port of Chicago. "Salvatore can think whatever he likes, as long as his monthly tribute arrives on time."
"He's cutting your cut by fifteen percent starting next month," Luke said quietly.
My hand froze over the fountain pen. Slowly, I raised my eyes to meet my lieutenant's. "He's doing what?"
"He thinks you've become soft. Sitting up here in the woods, firing your doctors, hiding from the press. He thinks the Sledge is broken." Luke leaned over the desk, his eyes hard. "He’s testing you. If you don't show your face at the gala this Saturday, he’s going to take the docks."
"Let him try," I snarled, slamming my fist against the mahogany desk so hard the glass decanter rattled. "I built that network with blood, Luke! I'll tear his family down brick by brick before I let that bastard take an inch of my territory!"
"You can't fight a war from a wheelchair if nobody sees you holding the gun, Danny!" Luke yelled back, his patience finally snapping. "You have to walk into that room—or roll into it—and remind those wolves who you are!"
Before I could answer, the heavy oak doors of the study flew open.
Emma stood in the doorway, her hair soaked with icy slush, her uniform drenched. She was panting, clutching her ribs, her face dead white.
"Mr. Vance," she wheezed, stumbling into the room.
Luke’s hand instinctively drifted toward his shoulder holster. "Who let her up here?"
"Wait," I ordered Luke, waving him off as I wheeled myself around the desk toward her. "Emma? What happened?"
She collapsed forward onto her knees right in front of my chair. I caught her by the shoulders before her face hit the carpet. She was freezing—her skin felt like ice water.
"They... they were waiting at the bus stop," she gasped, her chest heaving as tears cut clean tracks through the dirt on her cheeks. "Two men. They said... they said my brother owed them forty thousand from his gambling debts. They told me... if I didn't give them access to your service entrance tonight... they were going to go to the memory care home and..."
She broke down into violent, hysterical sobs, her small hands clutching the armrests of my wheelchair for support.
My blood ran instantly cold, then boiled into liquid rage.
"Access to my house?" I asked, my voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register. "What did they look like?"
"Black SUV... silver rings," she sobbed. "One of them had a scar across his throat. He had a keycard... he said someone inside gave it to him."
I looked up at Luke. His face had gone pale.
A keycard to my private security gate meant an insider had sold me out. And a man with a throat scar was one of Salvatore’s primary enforcers—a hitman named Russo.
Salvatore wasn't just planning to cut my percentage. He had sent a hit squad to finish the job the sniper started two years ago, using my exhausted maid as the back door.
"Luke," I said softly, my voice carrying the terrifying calm that used to make whole boardrooms go silent. "Get the men. Lock down the perimeter."
"Danny—"
"Now!" I roared.
Luke turned and sprinted out of the room, drawing his weapon as he cleared the doorway.
I looked down at Emma. She was shaking violently, trapped in the crossfire of a mob war she knew nothing about.
"Listen to me," I said, reaching down and cupping her wet face in my hands, forcing her to look into my eyes. "Look at me, Emma."
She looked up, her brown eyes wide with terror.
"Nobody is touching your mother," I promised her, every word dripping with absolute, lethal certainty. "And nobody is touching you. You are under my roof now."
I unlocked the drawer under my desk, pulled out a secondary piece—a snub-nosed .38 revolver—and placed it gently into her trembling, cold hand.
"Do you know how to use this?" I asked.
May you like
She shook her head, staring at the blue steel in terror.
"Point it at the door," I told her, dragging her gently behind the thick oak desk. "If anyone other than me or Luke steps through that frame... pull the trigger until it stops clicking."
