Vow of Loyalty (Chicago Vows #1)

Chapter 1

EMILIA

Red lights flickered above the exit signs on the scattered doors throughout the warehouse, casting an eerie, hellish glow a few feet around each entrance.

The old building groaned against the December wind outside, its metal frame creaking in protest. If the lights were on, we would see our breath turn into ghostly wisps before our faces, but my team hid in the shadows, ready to strike.

The shadows had become the place I'd become most comfortable over the past two years. I had, in fact, become a shadow myself, a whispered rumor in the world I lived in. To most, I was like the boogeyman or their worst nightmare, if they only knew how truly terrifying I was.

I pressed my back against the freezing concrete wall, feeling the cold seep through my tactical gear.

Around me, I could sense rather than see my men in position.

Eight of them, scattered throughout the warehouse like chess pieces waiting for my signal.

The air smelled of rust, motor oil, and something older.

Decay, perhaps. Or maybe just the accumulated rot of all the deals and deaths this building had witnessed.

Voices echoed from outside, not bothering to be quiet, laughing and moving closer to where we sat waiting, stalking our prey, ready to pounce like the lions we are.

I silently counted them as they approached. Seven voices, maybe eight. More than intelligence had suggested, but not unexpected. The Esposito family had become careless in their sense of security, but not entirely foolish.

One last bang of the door closing was enough for me to give the signal, a single sharp whistle, barely audible over the wind howling through gaps in the warehouse walls. My men moved as one.

The once-dark room filled with the sound of gunfire, with flashes from the muzzles of our guns creating a strobe-light effect that turned everything into a nightmare tableau. Our enemies scattered like roaches, scrambling for cover before they reached the light switches.

We suspected they would want the lights on.

Only half the team wore night vision goggles, so when the overhead fluorescents flickered on, as they inevitably would, we would have some cover to remove them without going blind.

This gave us a slight advantage. It’s the little things that many people overlook when planning revenge.

Charging into a building with blind rage has never been effective.

Carefully planned operations are my specialty.

While they shouted and screamed at one another, we remained silent, cutting them down before they could organize.

I moved along the perimeter, my boots silent on the concrete despite the chaos erupting around me. The muzzle flash from my gun lit up faces. Some I recognized from surveillance photos; others were strangers. It didn't matter. They'd all made their choice when they aligned with the Espositos.

Listening to the voices and gunfire, I realized there were more men here than I had initially expected. Twelve, maybe fifteen. I don't like surprises. Things usually went wrong when I wasn't prepared.

A bullet ricocheted off a metal beam near my head, sending sparks flying. I dropped into a crouch and rolled behind a stack of wooden pallets that smelled of mildew and rot.

“Boss, on your left,” one of my men shouted. I turned just in time to see the face of one man we were taking down. He was young, couldn't have been over twenty-five, with terror written all over his face.

I raised my gun and squeezed the trigger, but not before a burning sensation shot through my biceps. The impact spun me slightly, but I didn't go down. I couldn't go down.

I couldn't worry about it now. I needed to move. Light on my feet despite the wound, I dashed across the warehouse as the gunfire became less and less frequent. The air was thick with gunpowder smoke now, creating a haze that made everything look dreamlike. Surreal.

A hand wrapped around my ankle, and I stumbled but stayed on my feet. "Looks like I caught you, boy," a gravelly voice said. The big oaf raised his gun, genuine triumph in his eyes. "Don't play in the big time when you're not even out of the minor leagues."

I almost laughed at the irony. Boy, if he only knew.

Before he could squeeze the trigger, I raised mine. The pressure around my ankle released, and I stared down at the man as the light left his eyes. He died still thinking he'd caught some young punk who'd gotten in over his head.

Across the room, through the thinning smoke and chaos, I saw him.

Diego Esposito, the boss of the Esposito family, tried to rally his remaining men near the east wall.

What a foolish man to come here tonight.

There was nothing that could protect him now.

It had taken me two years of planning, two long years of listening to questions about when I'd give the orders for this revenge, and I was about to take my pound of flesh.

I pressed myself against the wall, letting the shadows swallow me again. The warehouse was quieter now, with only scattered shots and the groans of wounded men. I moved like smoke, like the ghost they'd all feared without knowing my name.

I tiptoed along the wall and observed that no one noticed me until I placed my brother's knife against Diego Esposito's throat.

I'd seen him in action enough to know he didn't handle pressure well. He dropped his gun immediately, and if I listened closely, I was sure I could hear his heart pounding in his chest. Or maybe that was my own, thundering with anticipation and the weight of two years' worth of rage.

"This is for my brother, Marco Carminatti," I said through gritted teeth as I pressed the knife harder into his throat, just enough to draw a thin line of blood.

"Carminatti only has..." He couldn't finish his sentence.

The knife did its work, and he dropped to the floor, hands clutching uselessly at his neck in a futile attempt at living.

Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading.

He looked up at me with wide eyes, blinking slowly as recognition dawned, too late, always too late, and he realized who I was.

Now don't get me wrong, I hated my brother. Marco had been cruel and ambitious, treating me as if I were invisible. However, he was family, and this was the expectation in our life. It had taken me two years to get to this moment. I’d given this sack of shit a false sense of peace, a belief that maybe the Carminatti family had gone soft, but tonight that all changed.

Tonight, I would rock the foundations of every organization in this city.

It also put a target on my back. Too bad for them; they didn't know who I was.

I stood over Diego Esposito's body for a moment, feeling absolutely nothing. No satisfaction, no remorse. Just the quiet certainty that this was necessary.

As I looked around the warehouse, I took inventory.

We hadn't escaped without losses on our side. I counted three of my men down, maybe dead, maybe just wounded. That was a hazard of the job. Every man knew it. Other families cared for the families of their fallen comrades, but my father didn’t.

He said they all knew the risks, and it wasn't his responsibility to keep their families comfortable.

I wished I could change that, but sweeping changes weren't something that could happen overnight.

When I took full control, things would be different.

Moving back to the corner, I slipped into the shadows again.

To most of these men, I was just the kid who tagged along sometimes, a skilled operative whose face they couldn't quite recall in the daylight.

Nobody said anything. I was good at getting into places unnoticed, and they'd seen enough to trust that I had their backs when it counted.

There were no congratulatory high-fives or cheers. Everyone silently went about their jobs, collecting shell casings, checking bodies, and cleaning up what needed to be done. This was business, not a celebration.

"Everyone’s gone," Mathias said, his massive frame looming at my side, though he kept a careful foot behind. I was the boss; nobody was on my level. He might be my underboss, but he knew his place.

"This should send the message," I said, my voice flat.

A nagging doubt in the back of my mind wondered if it needed to be more public, but my one weakness was innocent people falling victim to this life.

There was no need for it. Shootouts in the middle of the street were as outdated as eighties fashion.

These days, our families fight in warehouses, empty junkyards, and on the turf of our enemies. "Burn it to the ground."

I turned and headed for the exit, my boots echoing in the now-quiet building. Behind me, I heard Mathias giving orders to the cleanup crew.

"You're bleeding," Mathias said with a slight worry in his voice as he caught up to me. He moved closer, his eyes fixed on my arm where blood had soaked through my sleeve.

"It's just a graze." Rolling my eyes, I knew this was why people couldn't know who I was.

All they would do is worry and fret, forgetting about the things I'd actually accomplished.

I'd just orchestrated the downfall of one of Chicago's oldest crime families, and that was about to be overshadowed by concern about a flesh wound.

We reached the small office near the entrance where I had stashed my belongings.

Mathias grabbed the first aid kit hanging on the wall beside the door, and I removed my tactical gear, peeling off layers until I could access the clothing underneath.

The dress I wore here, elegant and expensive, was completely out of place with what I had just done.

Leaving one arm exposed so he could bandage me up, I watched Mathias work. I was constantly amazed at how this massive man, six-foot-four and built like a linebacker, could be so gentle. His huge fingers moved with surprising gentleness as he cleaned the wound.