Chapter 6 - The Falcone Threat
While Alexander kept vigil in the snow, the delicate balance of power in Chicago’s underworld was violently disintegrating.
The Falcone syndicate, long-standing rivals of the Moretti family, had caught wind of the rift between Alexander and his inner circle.
They knew Nathan had walked away, they knew Sophia’s family was threatening to pull their political alliances, and they knew Alexander had abandoned his primary headquarters to spend his days in a quiet suburb.
To a predator, an obsessed king is a vulnerable king.
On a bitterly cold Tuesday morning, I walked to the local post office to pick up a package of baby clothes sent by my college roommate.
The streets were slick with fresh snow, the neighborhood quiet and peaceful beneath the gray winter sky.
As I turned down the residential alleyway that cut through to my street, the screech of tires echoed across the asphalt.
A rusted blue van skidded into the alley mouth, blocking my path forward.
Before I could turn around, a second black sedan pulled into the rear entrance of the alley, boxing me in completely.
Four men in heavy tactical jackets and ski masks stepped out of the vehicles, their hands tucked inside their pockets, advancing toward me with ruthless speed.
"Claire Bennett?" the lead man barked, his voice laced with a thick East Coast accent.
"Carmine Falcone wants to have a little chat with Alexander Moretti's little secret."
Panic, cold and suffocating, seized my chest.
I backed away until my coat hit the brick wall of a neighbor's garage, clutching my swollen belly with both arms.
"Stay away from me!" I screamed, looking wildly for any open gate or escape route.
"Don't make a fuss, sweetheart," the second man sneered, reaching into his coat for a pair of zip-ties.
"The boss just wants to hold you and the kid until Moretti signs over the River North casino licenses—"
Before the man could finish his sentence, the roar of an eight-cylinder engine tore through the quiet alley like a cannon blast.
A black Maybach blasted over the snowbank at forty miles an hour, smashing directly into the side of the blue van with a deafening metallic crunch.
The impact spun the van ninety degrees, crushing the front grille into the concrete telephone pole.
The Maybach's driver door kicked open with explosive violence.
Alexander stepped out into the falling snow.
He wore no coat, only his black suit trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
His eyes were not human; they were black, burning pits of pure, unadulterated hellfire.
In his right hand, he held a heavy tactical sidearm, leveled with surgical precision at the lead mercenary.
"Touch her," Alexander whispered, his voice vibrating with such lethal, demonic intensity that the four armed hitmen froze in absolute terror.
"Touch a single hair on her head, and I will feed your bones to the stray dogs on 22nd Street."
"Moretti!" the lead mercenary stammered, his hand reaching for his waistband.
Alexander didn't hesitate.
He closed the distance in two blindingly fast strides, his left hand clamping around the man's throat like a hydraulic press.
He drove the man's head into the brick wall with a sickening crack, disarming him with a single flick of his wrist.
The other three men panicked, drawing their weapons, but from the rooftops above, the laser sights of three Rossi sniper rifles painted crimson dots across their chests.
"Drop your weapons," a voice echoed from the alley entrance.
Nathan stood there, flanked by six Moretti enforcers carrying automatic carbines.
May you like
The three mercenaries dropped their guns onto the slushy snow, raising their hands in trembling surrender.
Alexander didn't look at the defeated hitmen; he turned around, his chest heaving with ragged, frantic breaths, and rushed toward me.
