Chapter 17 - The Morning After the Storm
By Tuesday afternoon, the Hart estate had become an armed camp.
Thirty additional private security operatives patrolled the perimeter walls, their assault rifles concealed beneath heavy winter parkas. German shepherds paced the tree line with their handlers.
In the main library on the first floor, Gabriel was already sitting upright in a high-backed leather armchair, a heavy cashmere robe draped over his bandaged chest. A laptop sat on the side table, displaying live security feeds from the Port of Indiana, the rail hubs, and the Moretti compounds across the Midwest.
Leo Rossi stood before him, looking like a thundercloud ready to break.
“Dominic talked,” Leo rumbled. “He sang like a canary before we even pulled out the pliers. Moretti promised him forty percent of the northern intermodal hub if Gabriel died on the bridge.”
Gabriel took a slow, measured sip of black coffee, suppressing a wince as the movement pulled at the forty-two stitches across his back.
“Where is Salvatore Moretti now?” Gabriel asked, his voice dead and terrifyingly calm.
“Hiding in his penthouse at the Montgomery,” Leo answered. “He’s got forty hired guns on the top three floors. He knows he missed. He knows you’re alive.”
Suddenly, the heavy oak library doors swung open.
Eli walked into the room, carrying a red plastic tray containing two buttered biscuits, a bowl of chicken noodle soup, and a small glass of orange juice. He moved with extreme care, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in deep concentration so he wouldn't spill a single drop.
Behind him walked Mrs. Gable, watching him with an amused, watchful eye.
Leo immediately closed his mouth, his giant frame stepping back into the shadows.
Gabriel looked up from his security reports. The murderous cold in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a soft, welcoming warmth that no mobster in Chicago would have ever believed possible.
“Mr. Vance,” Gabriel said respectfully.
Eli reached the leather armchair and carefully set the red tray on the small mahogany side table beside Gabriel’s laptop.
“Mrs. Gable said you got hurt by bad men on the bridge,” Eli said, his dark eyes wide and serious as he inspected the bandages peeking out from Gabriel’s robe.
“Just a few scratches, Eli,” Gabriel replied gently.
Eli shook his head solemnly. “That’s not scratches. That’s shrapnel. I read about it in the World War II encyclopedia yesterday. It comes from grenades.”
Gabriel glanced at Leo, who had to cough into his fist to hide a sudden smirk.
“You’re well-informed,” Gabriel said to the boy.
Eli reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn object: a cast-lead miniature Roman legionary soldier, no bigger than his thumb, that my father had given him before he passed.
Eli stepped closer and laid the tiny lead soldier on the tray beside the soup.
“This is Marcus,” Eli explained, looking Gabriel dead in the eye. “Grandpa Arthur said Marcus guarded the gate of the camp in Gaul for three years and never let the barbarians through. You can borrow him until your back gets better.”
Gabriel stared at the tiny lead soldier.
For several long seconds, the man who controlled half the wealth of Illinois didn't move. His throat bobbed sharply. He slowly reached out, his large, scarred fingers picking up the tiny toy with the reverence of a priest handling a holy relic.
“Thank you, Eli,” Gabriel said, his voice unusually thick. “Marcus will take the first watch.”
Eli smiled proudly. “Eat the biscuits before they get cold. Mom made them.”
Eli turned and marched happily out of the library, Mrs. Gable following behind with a quiet, knowing smile.
Leo stared at the tiny lead soldier in Gabriel’s palm.
“Boss,” Leo murmured, his rough voice laced with rare emotion. “The boy’s got guts.”
Gabriel closed his fingers gently around the toy, his slate eyes hardening into flint.
“Leo.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Call Marco. Tell the harbor pilots to shut down the fuel lines to the Moretti barges at Burns Harbor. Freeze their logistics accounts in Zurich. Cut their supply lines off at the knees.”
Gabriel looked toward the open library door where Eli had just exited.
May you like
“Salvatore Moretti brought war to my city,” Gabriel whispered. “Now I’m going to take everything he owns.”
***