Chapter 3 - The Ghost from Chicago
Within three hours, my private penthouse overlooking the Hudson River had transformed into a military command center.
Dozens of high-resolution monitors lined the mahogany walls, displaying traffic camera feeds, flight manifests, and cellular tower pings from across upstate New York. Armed guards paced the perimeter balconies, while tactical teams checked their suppressors and tactical vests in the lower corridors.
Yet amid the heavy machinery of war, the living room had become something entirely alien to my existence.
Emma sat cross-legged on my pristine white velvet sofa, wearing oversized pink slippers that a junior associate had frantically purchased from a boutique downstairs. A cartoon rabbit hopped across the eighty-inch television screen while she dipped strawberry slices into whipped cream, completely oblivious to the heavily armed men moving quietly behind her.
""She likes chocolate milk better,"" Mrs. Ramos remarked, standing quietly near the kitchen island. I had hired Evelyn on the spot as Emma's temporary guardian, offering her a salary that would secure her family for life just to keep Emma comfortable during the storm.
""Write down everything she likes,"" I instructed Evelyn without looking away from the satellite maps. ""Her allergies, her bedtime stories, the clothes she prefers. If she asks for anything, she gets it immediately.""
""She doesn't need things, Mr. Rivers,"" Evelyn replied quietly. ""She needs her parents.""
Before I could answer, the double doors of the penthouse opened. Paulie Russo, my second-in-command and the sharpest strategist in the five boroughs, strode into the room carrying a black leather portfolio. His face was grim, devoid of his usual sarcastic smirk.
""We caught a scent, Michael,"" Paulie said, keeping his voice lowered so Emma wouldn't hear over the sound of the cartoon music.
I stepped away from the monitors, gesturing for Paulie to join me in my private study. As soon as the soundproof oak door clicked shut, Paulie tossed the folder onto my desk.
""Your intel on Victor Vance was dead on,"" Paulie said. ""He crossed into New York jurisdiction three days ago driving a stolen black Tahoe. We pulled highway toll footage near Plattsburgh. But here’s the problem, Michael.""
""Speak,"" I snapped.
""Vance isn't alone. Dominic Moretti didn't just send a hitman. He came himself. Our sources in Chicago confirm Dominic cleared out his main accounts and flew private into Albany yesterday afternoon.""
My jaw clenched until my teeth ached. ""Dominic wouldn't leave his territory unless he thought he had the winning hand. Why risk setting foot in my state?""
""Because he knows he's cornered,"" Paulie explained, tapping the photograph of a dilapidated motel near Lake Champlain. ""Dominic's empire in Illinois is bankrupt. The feds are preparing an indictment for his racketeering operations. He needs a lifeline, Michael. He thinks if he uses Claire to bleed your empire dry, he can take your shipping routes to South America and disappear into international waters.""
""And Claire?"" I demanded, my pulse racing. ""Is she still breathing?""
Paulie hesitated, meeting my eyes with uncomfortable gravity. ""We intercepted a radio transmission between Vance and Dominic's local safehouse at dawn. Vance captured a woman matching Claire's description in the woods outside an abandoned rail depot near Plattsburgh yesterday evening.""
The air left my lungs in an agonizing rush. Captured. For nearly twenty-four hours, the woman who carried my child had been in the hands of the most sadistic men in the Midwest.
""Where are they holding her?"" I whispered, the rage inside me turning ice-cold.
""An old industrial warehouse down by the old canal near Whitehall,"" Paulie replied. ""They think they're invisible. Dominic sent an encrypted burner message to your private office line twenty minutes ago.""
""What does he want?""
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Paulie pulled out a recorded cassette player, pressing play.
Dominic Moretti’s raspy, cigarette-ravaged voice hissed through the speaker: “Michael, you arrogant little bastard. You stole my life five years ago, and now I have yours. Bring your daughter and the deeds to your Brooklyn shipping yards to the Whitehall locks by eight o'clock tonight. Come alone, or I send Claire back to you in pieces. Let's see how much you love your little family.”
