Chapter 5 - THE STORM BEFORE THE RECKONINGTwo weeks passed, and the entire ecosystem of the Romano mansion underwent a seismic shift.
The east-wing courtyard gates were gone, replaced by an open, sprawling garden where jasmine and rosemary were already being replanted by a surprisingly enthusiastic crew of gardeners who no longer feared for their limbs. Diesel no longer paced the stone path like a caged prisoner; he trotted freely across the estate, occasionally sitting by the grand front doors to greet visitors, much to the sheer terror of rival syndicate bosses who came to kiss the ring and found themselves whimpering at the sight of a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound bulldog casually sniffing their Italian leather shoes.
Vincent found himself changing his routine, too.
Instead of locking himself away in the west study until midnight, he spent his afternoons walking the estate grounds with Diesel trotting faithfully at his heel. And twice a week, Antonio Castellano brought Sophia over for Italian lessons—or so the old man claimed, though it was blatantly obvious to everyone in the mansion that Sophia’s true purpose was to read storybooks to a massive bulldog while Vincent sat nearby, pretending to review manifests while actually listening to every word.
Yet, in the underworld, peace was always the prelude to a war.
It happened on a cold Thursday evening in late November.
Vincent was hosting a private dinner in the formal dining room with three regional capos—men who controlled the shipping docks and weapon smuggling routes across the Midwest. The atmosphere was thick with cigar smoke, clinking crystal, and unspoken threats.
“The dock union in South Chicago is getting restless, Vincent,” Viktor Petrov, a ruthless Russian syndicate leader with a jagged scar across his left cheek, rumbled in his thick accent. He leaned across the mahogany table, narrowing his eyes. “They want a ten percent cut of the import tariffs. You’ve gone soft, Romano. Spending too much time playing domestic with Castellano’s granddaughter and that unmanageable beast of yours.”
The room went dead silent. The other two capos froze, holding their breath, waiting for the eruption.
Vincent didn't raise his voice. He didn't slam his fist on the table. He slowly set down his crystal glass of scotch, his gray eyes turning into chips of arctic ice.
“My business operations are none of your concern, Viktor,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a deadly, rhythmic cadence. “And my household is not open for discussion.”
“A monster of a dog roaming the grounds unsupervised?” Viktor sneered, standing up and towering over the table. “You’re losing your grip, Vincent. A man who can’t control his own yard can’t control a city.”
Before Vincent could draw his weapon, the heavy double doors of the dining room flew open with a deafening crash.
Giuseppe burst into the room, his face pale, gasping for breath.
“Mr. Romano! You need to come outside immediately! There’s a breach at the main security gate!”
Vincent shot out of his chair, overturning his heavy mahogany dining chair. “Who?”
“It’s Gianni’s men,” Giuseppe panted, referring to the rival Chicago faction that had been warring with the Romanos for control of the western warehouses. “They bypassed the outer perimeter with two armed vehicles. They’re holding Mrs. Castellano and Sophia hostage in the east garden! They tracked the girl here, thinking she was your leverage!”
The blood drained from Vincent’s face. The room spun.
Gianni. A butcher who targeted women and children to settle scores.
Viktor Petrov smirked, reaching for his jacket. “Looks like your domestic little tea parties have painted a target on your guests, Romano.”
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Vincent didn't answer. He moved with terrifying, blinding speed. He didn’t draw his gun—he reached behind him, grabbed a heavy iron poker from the fireplace hearth, and sprinted out of the dining room like a man possessed by demons.
Diesel, who had been sleeping soundly by the side doors, bolted upright at the sound of the commotion. His amber eyes locked onto Vincent’s sprinting form, and with a guttural, terrifying roar that shook the crystal chandeliers, the one-hundred-and-twenty-pound bulldog charged after his master into the night.
