Chapter 6 - The Iron Gate of the Palmer House
The armored convoy of three matte-black Cadillac Escalades rolled through the downtown Chicago loop like a funeral procession carved out of midnight.
Rain lashed against the bulletproof windows, blurring the neon lights of the skyscrapers into long, smeared streaks of crimson and gold.
In the backseat of the lead vehicle, the air was thick with the scent of gun oil, expensive leather, and suppressed violence.
Marcus sat in the jump seat, checking the clips of his submachine gun with rhythmic, mechanical clicks.
Beside him, Dr. Bennett nervously repacked a titanium medical case containing heavy local anesthetics and sterile gauze.
I sat on the far right, my bandaged right hand resting safely inside the deep pocket of the warm wool coat Luca had given me.
The pain in my palm had dulled to a persistent, throbbing ache under the medication, but my nerves were strung as tight as piano wire.
Through the dim light of the dashboard, I looked sideways at Luca.
He sat motionless against the armrest, his dark three-piece suit unbuttoned, his fingers idly rolling a heavy gold signet ring engraved with the Moretti crest.
His face was a statue of carved granite.
He didn't look like a man heading into an ambush orchestrated by his own father.
He looked like a general riding out to level an enemy city.
“We are three minutes from the Palmer House basement entrance,” Marcus reported, checking the encrypted tactical display on his encrypted tablet.
“Salvatore’s personal detail has blocked off the service lane with two delivery trucks.”
“The underground parking garage is swarming with forty men from the Sicilian faction.”
“They think we’re coming alone, Luca.”
Luca didn’t stop turning his signet ring.
“They are about to learn the difference between an old man's ghost stories and a modern syndicate,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of fear.
He turned his gray eyes toward me.
“Are you holding up, Nora?”
I swallowed the dryness in my throat and forced a steady nod.
“I’m fine, Mr. Moretti.”
“My hand doesn't hurt as long as I don't move the fingers.”
“It won't need to move much tonight,” Luca murmured, a cold, thin smile touching the corners of his lips.
“Just enough to press a play button.”
The Escalade plunged down the steep, slick ramp of the Palmer House underground garage, its headlights cutting through the damp concrete shadows.
The tires crunched over broken glass where the garage security booth had been deliberately smashed.
Before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop, the doors on both sides swung open.
Four armed operators poured out into the damp air, their tactical weapons raised, forming an immediate perimeter around our vehicle.
Marcus stepped out first, offering his hand to help me down.
I slid out of the leather seat, keeping my bandaged hand tucked close to my side.
May you like
Luca stepped out behind me, towering over the concrete pillars, his broad shoulders squared, his gaze fixed on the heavy iron service doors at the end of the hall.
“Let’s go meet my father,” Luca said.
