Chapter 8 - The Family Dinner
The following evening, miles away from the bullet-scarred safehouse on Division Street, the heavy oak doors of the Russo family estate in Barrington swung open to reveal a sprawling, candle-lit dining room that looked straight out of a Renaissance oil painting.
Don Lorenzo Russo—Callum’s aging, formidable grandfather and the patriarch of the syndicate—sat at the head of the mahogany table, cutting a slice of roasted lamb with deliberate, unhurried movements. Seated around the table were three senior capos, their faces hardened by decades of street wars, and, much to everyone's surprise, Sadie Miller, dressed in a borrowed emerald silk dress that belonged to Callum’s late mother.
The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension. The capos eyed Sadie with open suspicion, whispering among themselves in low, gravelly tones. A civilian female appraiser sitting at the inner sanctum table was unheard of; bringing her here after an assassination attempt was practically a declaration of war.
“So,” Don Lorenzo said, his voice deep and raspy like grinding stones as he laid his silverware down and looked directly at Sadie. “My grandson drags you out of a steakhouse, fights off a hit squad in our Division Street safehouse, and brings you to Sunday dinner. You must be either the bravest woman in Chicago, or the most dangerous.”
Sadie swallowed hard, keeping her posture straight despite the terrifying weight of the patriarch's gaze. She had spent the last twenty-four hours studying the ledger codes with Callum, and she knew her words carried more weight than any soldier in the room.
“I am neither, Mr. Russo,” Sadie said, her voice clear, steady, and entirely free of tremor. “I am simply an appraiser who refuses to let dead men's work be stolen by a butcher like Viktor Sterling.”
A murmur rippled around the table. One of the senior capos, a bulky, scarred veteran named Greco, leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table. “And why should the Russo family risk a full-scale war with Sterling’s eastern syndicate over some stolen ledger notes and a museum clerk?” Greco sneered.
Before Callum could speak, Sadie slid a single sheet of heavy parchment across the mahogany table directly toward Don Lorenzo. “Because Viktor Sterling isn't just laundering money through art,” Sadie said, her stormy gray eyes locking onto Greco’s. “He’s using the museum's private shipping channels to smuggle ballistic components into the port right under your noses. If the federal task force traces those shipments back to your docks, your entire family goes down for terrorism, not just racketeering.”
Don Lorenzo picked up the paper, his cataract-clouded eyes scanning the numbers with terrifying speed. The silence in the room became absolute.
May you like
The patriarch slowly lowered the paper, looked up at Callum, and then cast a long, appraising glance at Sadie. A slow, knowing smile touched the corners of Don Lorenzo’s wrinkled lips.
“Callum,” the old man rumbled softly, picking up his glass of red wine. “Where did you find this girl?” “I didn't find her, Grandfather,” Callum replied, his eyes never leaving Sadie’s face. “She found us.”
