Chapter 8 - The Ghost of the Syndicate
Matteo cracked the safe in under thirty seconds, pulling out a thick manila folder stamped with the seal of the Chicago Port Authority, along with a stack of encrypted hard drives.
“We got everything, boss,” Matteo said. “Every shipment, every payoff, every dirty cop on Preston’s payroll for the last decade.”
“Get Luca,” Enzo ordered.
Matteo sprinted down the hall toward Cell 104. A minute later, he returned supporting an older man with silver hair, bruised ribs, and a split lip, but whose eyes were still sharp as broken glass.
Luca DeLuca looked at his nephew, then at Harper, and let out a dry, raspy chuckle. “You took your sweet time, Enzo. I was starting to think I’d have to eat the prison breakfast.”
“Shut up, old man,” Enzo muttered, throwing Luca’s arm over his shoulder. “Can you walk?”
“I can run if someone is shooting at me,” Luca replied. He stopped, his gaze landing on Harper. The old man’s face softened with genuine remorse. “Harper… God, look at you. I told Nathan to get you out of that house three years ago. I’m sorry I couldn't stop them.”
Harper lowered her weapon slightly, a flicker of emotion breaking through her stony facade. “You knew Nathan was trying to save me?”
“Nathan was the only one in this damn family with a conscience,” Luca said bitterly. “He knew what Salvatore and Preston were doing to you. He was gathering evidence to hand them both over to the federal grand jury in Washington. That’s why Preston had him killed—not over some street tax.”
Enzo felt the ground shift under his feet once more. Nathan hadn’t just been innocent; he had been a hero trying to dismantle the rot from the inside.
Suddenly, the red emergency lights in the corridor began to pulse. A loud klaxon horn shattered the silence.
Alert. Main power disconnected. Manual override engaged. Exterior doors locked.
“Someone tripped the master lockdown,” Matteo yelled, racking his shotgun.
Through the security monitors on the wall, Enzo saw four black SUVs pull up outside the annex. Dozens of heavily armed men in black tactical gear poured out, surrounding the perimeter.
Leading them, wearing a tailored cashmere coat over a bulletproof vest, was Preston Whitcomb.
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He held a detonator in his left hand and an assault rifle in his right.
“He didn't come to arrest us,” Harper said, her voice shaking with rage. “He’s going to execute everyone inside and blame it on a gang riot.”
