Chapter 5 - Blood and Port DocumentsThe grand foyer of the Lake Forest estate was bathed in pale morning light filtering through the stained-glass dome overhead. Salvatore Barone stood near the base of the grand staircase, his heavy wool overcoat unbuttoned, flanked by two armed enforcers who looked distinctly uneasy despite their tough exteriors. Behind them stood Celeste, wrapped in a designer mink coat, her face twisted into an impatient, triumphant scowl.
“I told you he wouldn't last the night,” Celeste muttered, tapping her Louboutin heel against the marble floor. “The man is paralyzed from the waist down and arrogant enough to think he can run Chicago. Getting rid of him was the easy part.”
Salvatore grunted, checking his gold pocket watch. “Quiet, Celeste. Let’s find out where Nora is hiding before the local police start asking questions about medical anomalies.”
Before Celeste could reply, the heavy oak doors at the end of the grand hallway swung open.
Salvatore turned, expecting to see a grieving widow in a black dress. Instead, his breath caught in his throat.
Nora walked down the center of the foyer. She wasn't wearing the shapeless brown wig, nor the thick glasses, nor the puckered silicone scar that had hidden her face for a decade. Her copper-brown hair fell in soft, elegant waves around her shoulders, and her natural features—striking, refined, and an exact mirror of the face Celeste saw in the mirror every morning—were framed by a sharp, tailored black blazer.
Behind her, rolling smoothly across the marble floor in his custom wheelchair, came Adrian Vitali. In his lap, he held the biometric sample vial containing the clear, lethal liquid extracted from the Amaro bottle.
Salvatore stepped back, his face turning an unhealthy shade of grey. “You... you’re alive.”
“Good morning, Father,” Nora said, her voice carrying a crisp, ringing authority that echoed off the high ceiling. “Did you enjoy the drive from Oak Brook? Or were you too busy rehearsing your condolences?”
Celeste grabbed Salvatore’s arm, her eyes wide with mounting hysteria. “Dad... look at her face. The scar... what happened to her face? Why does she look like—?”
“Because she never had a scar, Celeste,” Adrian interrupted, his voice cutting through the foyer like a razor blade. He stopped his wheelchair ten feet from Salvatore, his dark eyes locked onto the older mob boss with chilling composure. “Your father manufactured a fake disability for her ten years ago so she could hide in his basement while you played society princess. And yesterday, he tried to use her as a delivery system for a cardiac glycoside.”
Salvatore’s hand instinctively drifted toward the inside of his coat, where a heavy revolver rested in a shoulder holster. “You’re talking nonsense, Vitali. You have no proof of—”
“I have the chemical assay report from an independent state laboratory,” Adrian said smoothly, holding up the small glass vial. “I also have a recorded phone call from your private accountant in Oak Brook detailing the financial wire transfers used to purchase the poison from an overseas broker in Zurich. And, most importantly, I have your daughter’s sworn testimony.”
Salvatore’s enforcers instinctively took a half-step back, distancing themselves from their boss as the legal and criminal reality of the situation crashed down around them. In the underworld of Chicago, murder was sometimes tolerated; incompetence and federal exposure were fatal.
“You can’t prove anything in a federal court,” Salvatore snarled, his voice trembling with rage as he lunged forward. “I’ll tear your entire syndicate apart—!”
Before Salvatore could clear his weapon, Adrian pressed a small button on the armrest of his wheelchair.
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From the shadowed archways surrounding the foyer, six heavily armed security operatives stepped out, their automatic rifles raised and trained directly on Salvatore and his men. At the same time, the front doors swung open again to reveal two unmarked federal vehicles pulling up the drive, accompanied by men wearing FBI windbreakers.
“You aren't going to court, Salvatore,” Adrian said softly, leaning forward in his chair. “You’re going to a maximum-security penitentiary. And your estate, your restaurants, and your shipping ports? They now legally belong to the Vitali family trust, managed exclusively by my wife.”
