Chapter 18
Tigran
Claude’s office building rises forty-three stories above downtown Chicago, its glass and steel facade reflecting the gray November sky like a mirror.
From the street, it looks like any other corporate tower in its anonymous sterility, where middle management shuffles papers and discusses quarterly projections, but I know better.
This building houses the nerve center of Claude Lo Duca’s empire, the legitimate face of operations that stretch from shipping contracts to political campaigns.
“Fifteen minutes,” Viktor reports through my earpiece as our convoy pulls into the underground parking garage. “The perimeter is secure, snipers are in position, and Lo Duca’s people have swept the building twice.”
I adjust my suit jacket, appreciating the familiar weight of the Glock beneath my arm. Beside me, Zita stares out the window at the concrete walls of the garage, her hands folded in her lap with stillness from barely controlled tension.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask, studying her profile in the dim light.
“No.” She turns to face me, and I see exhaustion and determination in her dark eyes. “That doesn’t matter, does it? We can’t keep hiding in the mansion while Avgar picks us off one by one.”
The restaurant attack three days ago proved that nowhere is truly safe as long as the Federoffs are planning our destruction. It’s better to take the fight to them on our terms, with our allies, than wait for the next ambush.
“Your father has more experience with this kind of coordination than he’s letting on,” I tell her as we step out of the armored sedan. “The Lo Duca family didn’t survive three generations in Chicago politics by playing nice.”
“I know.” Her voice carries a note of something that might be pride or worry. “I’m sure he’s been preparing for this conversation since the day he signed that marriage contract.”
The elevator ride to the forty-third floor is silent except for the soft hum of machinery and the quiet rustle of fabric as my men check their weapons one final time.
Dmitri and Viktor flank me, their expressions professionally neutral despite the tension radiating from both of them.
They don’t like this meeting. There are too many variables, too many people with divided loyalties, and too many opportunities for betrayal.
I don’t like it either, but leadership requires accepting calculated risks. Sometimes, you have to trust that the benefits outweigh the dangers while still preparing for the worst.
The elevator doors open to reveal Claude’s reception area of polished marble and expensive art designed to impress visiting politicians while intimidating rival businessmen. His secretary, a sharp-eyed woman in her sixties, nods respectfully as we pass.
“Mr. Belsky,” she says formally, “Mr. Lo Duca is waiting for you in the conference room.”
The penthouse conference room occupies the entire north corner of the building, its tall windows offering a panoramic view of the city that Claude’s spent decades learning to control. He stands at one of those windows now, his hands clasped behind his back, and looks somber.
“Tigran.” He turns when we enter, his weathered face creased with lines that speak to years of difficult decisions. “Thank you for coming.” Then he turns his attention to Zita. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Papa.”
“Good.” He seems genuinely relieved as he walks toward me, hand extended.
I shake his offered hand, noting the firmness of his grip and how his gaze quickly assesses my men before returning to meet mine. “We need to present a united front. The Federoffs are counting on division between our families.”
“They’ll be disappointed.” He moves to the head of the conference table, where papers and photographs are spread in organized rows. “I’ve compiled everything we know about Avgar’s operations, including financial records, property holdings, and known associates.”
I gesture to Viktor, who removes a thick folder from his briefcase and lays it on the table too. “So have we.”
“Good. Maybe our information will fill in the gaps and overlap.” Claude sits down.
Zita takes the chair to her father’s right, her posture straight and alert despite the emotional toll of recent events.
She’s wearing a navy blue dress that projects competence and authority, probably chosen to remind everyone in the room that she’s not just Tigran Belsky’s wife, or Claude Lo Duca’s daughter, but an intelligent strategist in her own right.
“The restaurant attack was more sophisticated than anything we’ve seen from the Federoffs before,” I say, settling into the chair across from Claude. “Someone provided them with military-grade training and equipment.”
“The Sarkov Bratva from Detroit,” Claude says, sliding a photograph across the table. “Intelligence suggests they’ve been supplying tactical support in exchange for a share of Chicago territory once Avgar eliminates us.”
I study the photograph of three men in expensive suits standing outside a Detroit warehouse, their faces partially obscured by shadows but still recognizable. Alekseev Sarkov and his lieutenants are sharks who’ve been circling Chicago’s criminal enterprises for years.
“They’re overreaching,” Viktor says, leaning forward to examine the intelligence reports. “Detroit Bratva trying to expand into Chicago will bring federal attention they can’t afford.”
“Unless they succeed quickly and quietly,” Dmitri says. “If they can eliminate both our organizations within a matter of weeks, they can present the FBI with a fait accompli.”
“Which is exactly why we need to coordinate our response,” Claude says. “Separate, we’re vulnerable. Together, we represent too much firepower for them to handle.”
The next hour passes in detailed tactical planning.
Claude’s knowledge of the city’s political landscape proves invaluable.
He knows which aldermen can be bought, which police commanders will look the other way, and which judges will ensure that inconvenient evidence disappears from evidence lockers.
His decades of careful relationship-building have created a network of influence that complements the Bratva’s more direct methods.
“The Federoff safe house on the South Side,” Zita says, pointing to a location marked on one of the maps. “Must be where they’re staging their operations. Take that out, and you eliminate their command structure.”
Both Claude and I turn to look at her, surprised by her input. She’s been listening quietly for the past hour, absorbing information without comment.
“How do you know about the safe house?” I ask.
“It’s a matter of triangulation and deduction. That might not be the exact location of their safe house, but it’s the epicenter of all their smaller attacks on our business interests.attacks on our business interests..
“That’s actionable intelligence,” Claude says approvingly. “We can surveille to learn where the safe house is by searching for known associates. Once we identify it, we can coordinate simultaneous strikes on the safe house and their financial operations.”
“Assuming we can trust our own people long enough to execute the plan,” I say with a hint of bitterness. “The Federoffs have already demonstrated their ability to turn our personnel. We’ve rooted out one spy, but there could be more in the Belsky or the Lo Duca camps.”
“True, so we’ll limit the circle of knowledge,” says Viktor. “Only the people in this room know the full scope of the operation.”
I’m about to respond when the first bullet shatters the conference room’s north window.
The glass explodes inward in a shower of crystalline fragments, and I throw myself across the table toward Zita as more shots tear through the remaining windows. I realize it’s sniper fire from the building across the street and multiple shooters coordinating their attack together.
“Get down,” I shout, pushing Zita beneath the heavy oak conference table as bullets chew through expensive leather chairs and embed themselves in the far wall.
Through my earpiece, I hear Viktor calling for backup while Dmitri returns fire through the shattered windows, though his odds of hitting any of the snipers with his Desert Eagle are slim.
The sniper attack is just the beginning. The rapid staccato of automatic gunfire grows closer from the floors below. The choice of submachine guns reveals this is a full-scale assault on the building.
“They’re coming up the stairwells,” Claude says, speaking into his own radio. “East and west sides, at least twelve men per team, per my security manager.”
He moves to his desk with surprising speed for a man in his fifties, yanking open a locked drawer to retrieve a nickel-plated.45 that looks like it’s seen significant use. Whatever else Claude Lo Duca might be, he’s not a man who expects others to do his fighting for him.
“How did they know?” Zita demands, crawling toward her father’s position behind the desk. “How did they know exactly when and where we’d be meeting?”
“The same way they knew about the restaurant,” I say grimly, ejecting the magazine from my Glock to check my ammunition. “Someone told them. Maria wasn’t the only leak.”
This isn’t just another leak in our security though.
With the delay in their arrival, and how secretive we were about the details of this meeting, I suspect someone is feeding real-time intelligence to our enemies.
Someone with access to our most sensitive planning is actively working to get us killed.
The conference room door explodes inward as the first wave of Federoff soldiers reaches the forty-third floor.
They move with the same tactical precision I saw at the restaurant, coordinated and professional in ways that speak to extensive training, but they’re not dealing with terrified civilians this time.
They’re dealing with men who’ve been killing for longer than most of them have been alive.
Viktor puts down two of them before they can fully enter the room, his shots precise and lethal. Dmitri flanks left, using the overturned conference table as cover while he picks off attackers like fish in a barrel.
Through the chaos, Claude rises from behind his desk, the.45 held in a two-handed grip that suggests military training I never knew he possessed. He fires three shots in rapid succession, each one finding its target with accuracy that comes from years of practice.
“Papa, look out,” Zita screams from her position beneath the desk.
I turn just in time to see Claude stagger backward, a red stain spreading across the front of his white shirt. The bullet caught him center mass, tearing through lung tissue, causing damage that doesn’t heal.
“No!” Zita scrambles toward her father as he collapses behind the desk, his blood pooling on the expensive Persian rug. “No, no, no!”
I grab her around the waist, pulling her back behind the desk as more gunfire erupts from the doorway. “Stay down. Viktor, we need an exit route now!” Claude lies beside where we crouch, his breath gurgling.
“Working on it!” Viktor’s voice carries over the sound of automatic weapons fire. “The service elevator’s still operational, but we need to move fast.”
Claude is trying to speak, but blood bubbles from his mouth with each labored breath. Zita kneels beside him, keeping her hands pressed against the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, hard to hear over the gunfire. “Sorry for the contract…bringing this into your life. Sorry…chose…my survival over your freedom.”
“Don’t.” Zita presses harder on his wound. “Don’t you dare apologize. Don’t you dare leave me.”
“Sorry…didn’t listen to Luciana and drove her away…”
“Stay with me, Papa.” Even as she speaks, the light fades from Claude’s eyes. The man who built a political empire, who thought he could control the Bratva through marriage contracts and business arrangements, dies with his daughter’s tears on his face.
“Zita, we have to go,” I say gently, wrapping my arms around her shaking shoulders. “We have to go now.”
“I can’t leave him,” she whispers. “I can’t just leave him here.”
“You can and you will,” I say firmly, lifting her to her feet despite her struggles. “Staying here gets us both killed, and that doesn’t honor his memory.”
Viktor and Dmitri have cleared a path to the service elevator, their weapons trained on the approaches while we make our escape. I carry Zita rather than force her to walk, feeling the way her body shakes with grief and shock.
The ride down feels endless, forty-three floors of silent descent while Zita cries against my shoulder and my men watch the floor indicators with professional alertness. When the doors finally open in the parking garage, our backup team is waiting with additional vehicles and medical personnel.
“Boss,” one of my men reports as we reach the convoy. “We got most of them, but at least six escaped through the building’s underground tunnels.”
“Casualties on our side?”
“Two were wounded but none are dead. But…” He hesitates, glancing at Zita’s blood-soaked dress. “The news will be scrambling to report Claude Lo Duca’s death. This is going to cause ripples throughout the city.”
He’s right. Claude wasn’t just another businessman. He was a legitimate power broker who commanded respect from politicians and criminals alike. His murder will send shockwaves through Chicago’s political establishment and create a power vacuum that every ambitious operator will try to fill.
“Get us home,” I order, settling into the back seat with Zita still clinging to me, “and put out the word that anyone who worked with the Federoffs on this operation is a dead man.”
During the drive back to the mansion, Zita doesn’t speak. She sits pressed against my side with her face buried in my shoulder while tremors run through her body. I hold her close, one hand stroking her hair while the other rests on the gun beneath my jacket.
The woman in my arms is no longer the defiant bride who challenged my authority in conference rooms. The attack at the restaurant changed her, and now her father’s death has broken something inside her that might never fully heal.
She’s seen too much violence, lost too many people, and has been forced to accept too many brutal realities in too short a time.
I’m worried about her, but she’s also proven herself stronger than either of us expected.
She didn’t panic under fire, didn’t freeze when the shooting started, and didn’t break until after the immediate danger had passed.
Whatever else this marriage has cost us both, it’s revealed that Zita possesses deep inner strength that can’t be taught or faked.