Chapter 9 - The Return of the KingThe private airstrip at O’Hare International’s executive terminal was quiet under the shroud of a heavy Chicago fog.
At precisely 11:00 PM, my black Gulfstream G650 touched down on the tarmac, taxiing directly into a private hangar owned by a shell corporation Salvatore didn't even know existed.
Inside the terminal, Salvatore Rossi was holding an emergency summit of the Chicago syndicate council.
According to my encrypted wiretaps, twenty-two capos and regional bosses were gathered around the mahogany conference table on the thirty-second floor of the Moretti Tower downtown, voting on the formal dissolution of my estate and the division of my territories.
They thought I was out of the picture.
They thought the crown was up for grabs.
I stepped out of the private jet, dressed in a fresh charcoal three-phase suit, my hair combed back, my expression carved from granite. Behind me walked Elena, keeping a protective hand on Noah’s shoulder, while the other three boys clutched my coattails with wide, solemn eyes.
“You’re really going to walk right into the tower with them?” Elena asked, her voice laced with deep anxiety as my personal motorcade of three bulletproof SUVs pulled up inside the hangar.
“I’m not walking in with them,” I replied, opening the rear door of the vehicle for the boys. “You and the boys are staying in the secure VIP suite at the Drake Hotel under heavy guard. Once I settle accounts at the tower, I’m meeting you at the private hangar for Zurich.”
“Alejandro…” Elena touched my arm, her expression softening. “Be careful. Salvatore has fifty armed enforcers stationed inside that building.”
“Fifty men?” I smiled coldly, pulling my leather gloves tight over my knuckles. “That’s not an army. That’s a target-rich environment.”
Thirty minutes later, my SUVs glided into the underground parking garage of the Moretti Tower.
The security guards at the private elevator bank didn't even have time to reach for their holsters before my advance team neutralized them with synchronized suppressive strikes.
I stepped into the private executive elevator, pressing the button for the thirty-second floor.
Ding.
The doors slid open with a soft, polite chime.
Before me lay the sprawling executive boardroom. Twenty-two capos sat around the massive marble table, smoking expensive cigars, pouring scotch, and laughing loudly as Salvatore Rossi stood at the head of the table, holding a glass of champagne.
“To the new era of the Moretti Syndicate!” Salvatore toasted, raising his glass high. “No more ghosts from the past! No more tyranny! From this day forward—!”
“I’ll drink to that, Sal,” I said.
The voice cut through the room like a razor blade.
Every single head snapped toward the doorway.
The champagne glass slipped from Salvatore’s fingers, shattering against the marble floor in an explosion of sparkling glass and golden liquid. His face turned the color of curdled milk.
“A-Alejandro…” Salvatore stammered, his knees visibly buckling beneath him as he stared at me as if I had risen straight out of the grave. “You… you were supposed to be dead in Canada!”
I walked slowly into the boardroom, my footsteps echoing against the glass walls that overlooked the glittering skyline of Chicago.
“And you were supposed to be loyal, Sal,” I whispered, stopping just five feet from the head of the table.
Twenty-two capos scrambled for their sidearms, but before their fingers could even brush their holsters, the laser sights of a dozen sniper rifles—manned by my loyalists stationed on the adjacent rooftops—painted every single one of their foreheads with bright red dots.
The room went completely, utterly dead.
May you like
Nobody breathed. Nobody moved.
“The board meeting is adjourned,” I said, resting both hands flat on the conference table and leaning forward until my eyes locked onto Salvatore’s terrified, sweating face. “And as for my empire… it turns out I’m not quite ready to retire.”
