45. Lorenzo
LORENZO
Aman’s heart can make him powerful.
It can also make him easy to kill.
In Chicago, the moment the world learns what matters to you, it learns where to aim.
Fifteen years ago, I stood in a hospital corridor while a man named Carlo Greco bled to death three rooms away.
Carlo meant nothing to the newspapers.
Three days earlier, someone had taken his daughter.
They told him to come alone.
He did.
By sunrise, they were both dead.
I remember his wife’s screams carrying through the corridor. I remember the silence that followed when she finally had no voice left.
That night, a lesson no one needed to explain was learned.
A man’s heart is where he is easiest to reach.
The moment the world discovers what you love, it discovers exactly where to aim.
When Victoria became the centre of every thought I did not want to have, I remembered it.
When she left my estate, she believed she was stepping back into her own life, free of my shadow. She noticed the security vehicles lingering two blocks behind her, but she never discovered the digital signature cloned onto her phone.
Safety is an illusion paid for with preparation.
The surveillance teams were only the first layer.
The hidden tracker was insurance.
The one precaution I could not afford to overlook.
The screen on my desk vibrates at 7:14 p.m., breaking the silence of the office.
I pick it up.
Victoria’s name sits above the message.
My mum called. She said she’s at Old Port Road, Unit 17, near the abandoned storage buildings. I’m going there now. Please don’t ignore this.
The office stills.
My mind does.
Victoria never sounds this nervous.
Not with me.
Not unless fear has already found her.
My finger hits the interface, minimising the message and pulling up the secondary mapping grid connected to her hidden beacon.
The two locations do not match.
The address she typed sits by the water, surrounded by rusted tin, empty storage units, and dead shipping containers.
But the blue node on my satellite feed rests miles away, deep inside a quiet residential neighbourhood on the western edge of the city.
Still.
Waiting.
“Fuck.”
That gets their attention.
Matteo looks up from the warehouse transfers.
Hugo stops reading the financial reports.
I turn the screen toward them and point at the residential coordinates.
“The tracker?” Mateo asks, his jaw tightening. “That’s not the warehouse.”
“No.”
The answer settles heavily in my chest.
“Meaning Victoria didn’t send that message freely. She has no idea her phone is marked.”
I call her.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
The knot in my stomach tightens as I call Dante, stationed outside her apartment.
“Don,” he answers.
“Get here.”
I end the call.
Twenty minutes later, Hugo returns and places a single sheet of paper on my desk.
“The property is registered under an old commercial holding company. The primary beneficiary was Marie Volkova, Francesco Ricardo’s late mother. It’s a holding location. Security upgrades were added six months ago. No registered residents.”
The pieces lock into place.
Mikhail Volkov is a ghost who has spent five years arranging a quiet war from inside my territory, using Victoria’s mother as his anchor.
Now he is making his final move.
He is not hiding behind strangers.
He is hiding behind blood.
Behind his sister’s old estate.
I stand and button my coat.
“I can’t take chances.”
Matteo straightens.
“Mikhail set a trap at the docks,” I say. “He expects me to rush to Old Port Road with every gun I have because he believes Victoria’s text is the only compass I possess.”
Hugo’s expression hardens.
“We go where he doesn’t expect,” I continue. “But we send a decoy exactly where he wants it.”
Mateo catches on at once.
“You want watchers reporting movement. You want him to believe the trap worked.”
“Take four SUVs to Old Port Road, Unit 17. When you reach the gates, don’t cross into the yard. Park on public asphalt. Keep the men behind reinforced steel. Let them see the headlights.”
I pause.
“Take three of the men we flipped from Francesco’s crew last week. Put them in the lead vehicles.”
Mateo’s mouth curls.
“Mikhail’s spotters will recognise their faces.”
“Good. Let him understand that Francesco’s organisation is dismantled and his outer circle is already on my payroll.”
I slip my phone into my coat.
“Mikhail is a patron, not a street general. He depends on mercenaries who are only loyal to the next payment. Once the money stops, loyalty goes with it.”
Mateo nods.
“Hold the line outside. Draw their focus. Wait for my call.”
“Understood, Don.”
He turns and leaves, his boots heavy against the floor.
The room empties quickly, leaving only the men I need.
Dante.
Salvatore.
Lucio.
They stand by the door, already armed and silent.
I do not need a convoy to move through a residential neighbourhood.
Too many vehicles will spook Mikhail.
A show of force will make him panic and kill her before we reach the door.
I look once more at the blue dot on my phone.
Still unmoving.
Mikhail made one mistake.
He assumed Victoria’s message was the only road leading to her.
I pocket the phone.
“Let’s go.”
We move down through the private lift to the underground garage, where the dark sedan waits.
The engine turns over with a low rumble.
We pull out into the rainy Chicago night, heading fast toward the place where Victoria is being kept.