Chapter 4 - The Chicago SunriseBy 5:30 A.M., the eastern sky over Lake Michigan was painted in bruised shades of violet and gray. Inside the medical suite on the ground floor of the Vitali estate, Ruth Delaney slept peacefully in an adjustable orthopedic bed, surrounded by state-of-the-art monitoring equipment and an IV drip providing specialized neurological support.
Nora sat beside her, holding the elderly woman’s frail, wrinkled hand. Ruth’s breathing was steady, her color vastly improved from the pale, pinched exhaustion she had displayed during Nora’s last surreptitious visit to the Elmhurst facility.
The door hissed open, and Adrian rolled silently into the room. He was dressed in a charcoal turtleneck and tailored trousers, looking every bit the ruthless syndicate boss, yet his movements around Ruth were remarkably gentle.
“Her vitals are stabilizing,” Adrian reported, stopping his chair beside Nora’s. “Our lead physician says she’ll make a full recovery once the proper regimen is established.”
Nora looked up, tears of profound relief shimmering in her clear copper-brown eyes. “Thank you, Adrian. I don't even know how to begin to repay you.”
“You don't repay me by thanking me,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You repay me by standing beside me when your father walks through those front gates.”
Nora’s eyebrows drew together. “My father? You invited him here?”
“I didn't invite him,” Adrian smirked slightly, a rare flash of lethal humor crossing his features. “I sent him a text message at four-thirty this morning from your phone, letting him know that the Amaro bottle was successfully consumed by the groom, and asking him to come collect the signed port acquisition documents before the coroner arrives.”
Nora let out a startled, breathless laugh. “You didn't.”
“I did. And according to my perimeter sensors, his town car just passed the main security gate. He brought Miles and four of his top enforcers. He thinks he’s walking into a house with a dead husband and a terrified, compliant widow.”
Adrian reached out, taking Nora’s hand from the bed and pulling her to her feet.
“Are you ready to show Chicago what a real Barone looks like?” he asked.
May you like
Nora looked down at her hands, then up at the man who had seen through her masks, her silicone, and her fear. The timid maid from the basement was gone. In her place stood the true daughter of the bloodline—sharp, unyielding, and ready for war.
“Let’s open the front doors,” Nora said.
