Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Past
Monday morning arrived with a torrential Chicago downpour, sheeting gray rain against the forty-second-floor glass. Emily walked into the office looking remarkably human—well-rested, her posture relaxed, her eyes bright. She deposited the Monday morning financial logs onto Dante’s desk without her usual preemptive sigh of exhaustion. Dante looked up from his computer monitor, noting the transformation. “Weekend in Evanston treat you well?” he asked. “Miraculously, yes,” Emily admitted, offering a small, genuine smile that transformed her sharp features into something striking. “Leo had a good weekend. The doctors say his new routine is working.” Before Dante could reply, the heavy oak doors banged open without warning.
A tall, imposing man in an expensive Italian wool suit strode uninvited into the office. Viktor Vance, the ruthless head of the rival Bratva syndicate operating out of the northern suburbs, stood in the center of the room with a cold, predatory smirk plastered across his face. His two armed bodyguards flanked him instantly. Dante slowly stood up behind his desk, the easygoing warmth evaporating from his eyes in a single heartbeat, replaced by the razor-sharp predator he had always been. “Viktor,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. “You’re a long way from the North Side without an appointment.” Viktor laughed, a harsh, grating sound, stepping closer to the desk and slamming a heavy leather briefcase onto the reclaimed walnut wood. “Appointments are for businessmen, Dante. We aren't businessmen anymore. Word on the street is that your operation is getting soft. People say you’re losing your grip, spending your afternoons chatting with your secretary instead of securing your docks.”
Viktor’s eyes flicked over toward Emily, who was standing quietly near the corner with her clipboard, looking at Viktor as if he were an annoying mosquito buzzing near her ear. “Cute girl,” Viktor sneered, taking a step toward her. “Maybe I should take her off your hands. Teach her how a real boss treats—” Clack.
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Before Viktor could finish his sentence, Dante rounded the desk with terrifying speed. In one fluid motion, he grabbed Viktor by the expensive lapels of his wool suit, slammed him hard against the glass wall behind him, and pressed the cold steel barrel of his Sig Sauer directly beneath Viktor’s jawline. The room’s temperature plummeted instantly. The two Bratva bodyguards instinctively reached for their sidearms, but before their fingers cleared their holsters, four of Dante’s elite enforcers—led by a grinning Tommy—swarmed through the doors, shoving automatic shotguns straight into the Russians' chests. “Make one twitch,” Tommy whispered happily, “and I’ll paint this lovely glass window with your brains.”
Viktor choked for breath, his arrogant smirk instantly replaced by absolute, primal panic. “Dante... wait... I was just joking—” “You don't joke about my office, Viktor,” Dante hissed, his voice vibrating with suppressed fury. “And you certainly don't speak to my staff.” Emily watched the entire exchange from three feet away, sighed softly, and walked over to the desk to pick up her stapler. “Mr. Marino,” Emily interrupted mildly, tapping her pen against the wood. Dante paused, lowering the gun a fraction of an inch to look at her. “Yes, Emily?” “If you’re going to throw Mr. Vance through the window, please aim slightly to the left. The window-washing crew isn't scheduled until Wednesday, and if he smudges the middle pane with grease, they’ll charge us an emergency fee.” Viktor stared at her in sheer horror, his eyes bulging out of his head. Dante looked at Viktor, then looked at Emily, and a deep, rumbling laugh escaped his chest, breaking the terrifying tension of the room entirely.
