Chapter 11
Special Agent Raffaele Moretti of the FBI’s federal organized crime task force straightened at the words filtering through the surveillance feed.
Enrico Bianchi was a stupid son of a bitch—but a dangerous one.
Brutal, ambitious, and reckless. None of his soldiers were willing to testify against him; too many of them had seen firsthand what happened to anyone who crossed him.
But what Raffe had just heard…hell, if Bianchi truly thought he could move against Salvatore Romano, then the bastard had lost what little sense he’d ever had.
Romano might wear the crown of a Chicago mob boss, but he wasn’t the kind of man Raffe cared to take down.
The man kept drugs out of his territory, kept the crime rate under control, and even cut the legs out from under corrupt officials when they got too greedy.
To Raffe’s mind, Romano was more honest than half the politicians running the city.
Still a criminal, sure. But not a brutal one.
At least nothing had ever stuck to him in court.
Bianchi, though—Bianchi was different. He was merciless.
Power-hungry. And apparently suicidal if he thought he could bite off a piece of Romano’s empire.
Because taking a swing at Romano meant swinging at more than just Chicago.
It meant provoking Luca Bernardi in Las Vegas, Max Diatras in Seattle, and Dimitri DeLuca on the East Coast, and Paulo Ruffino in Detroit.
Those men weren’t just acquaintances; they were allies.
A move against one would bring all of them down on Bianchi’s head.
And that, Raffe thought grimly, was how street wars started.
He grabbed his phone, his jaw tightening as he punched in the secure line. “We have a problem,” he said, his tone clipped and unyielding.
Two beats of silence. Then the voice on the other end snapped, “Initiate Blue Sky protocols.”
Raffe closed his eyes briefly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He hated Blue Sky. It was messy, disruptive, and usually meant innocents were going to get caught in the blast radius. But orders were orders. And he was a man who got the job done.
“Copy that,” he replied, his voice steady, and ended the call.
Methodical as always, he gathered his gear.
He checked the mirror once, twice, making sure every detail of his disguise was in place.
Raffe wasn’t a man who relied on luck; he relied on preparation.
Pulling his hat lower over his brow, he slumped his shoulders, transformed his confident stride into a shuffle, and smeared a little more dirt across his jaw.
He looked like any other vagrant wandering the streets of Minneapolis—except his eyes, sharp and alert beneath the brim, missed nothing.
When he stepped out into the sunlight, he didn’t hurry. He ambled. He muttered nonsense under his breath, a string of gibberish meant to make the passersby give him space. To them, he was nobody. Harmless. Invisible.
And that was exactly how Special Agent Raffaele Moretti preferred to work.