Chapter 2 - The Ghost of the Syndicate
The metal pendant dangling from Evelyn’s silver chain caught the harsh glare of the cellar’s overhead bulb. It wasn’t a standard piece of jewelry. It was a crest—a stylized raven clutching a broken scale—the insignia of the Vanguard Syndicate, an elite international syndicate of shadow brokers and ghost operatives that everyone in the Chicago underworld thought had been wiped out in Prague fifteen years ago.
My breath caught. I didn’t blink. “Where did you get that?”
“From the man who left me for dead,” Evelyn said softly, her voice devoid of emotion. “The same kind of men who are currently watching your perimeter gates, Mr. Caruso.”
“Dad, what is she talking about?” Grace asked, picking up on the shift in our tone, her head tilting toward us.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I said, keeping my eyes locked on Evelyn. I signaled with two fingers, and Marcus, my head of security, appeared in the doorway, his hand resting on his holster. “Marcus. Escort Miss Shaw to the guest suite. Confine her there.”
“Try it,” Evelyn said, not raising her voice, but shifting her weight back onto her heels in a balanced defensive posture. “And your daughter learns the third rule of the Vanguard before you finish clearing your weapon.”
“Don’t touch her,” Grace snapped, stepping between us with her baton raised again, her blind eyes fixed in my general direction. “If you hurt her, Dad, I swear to God I will never speak to you again.”
The sheer defiance in my daughter’s voice stunned me into silence. For twelve years, I had sheltered her, wrapped her in cotton wool, hidden her away from the blood and bullets that defined my empire, believing that ignorance was safety. But looking at her now—bruised, fierce, and fiercely loyal to a woman she had known for four months—I realized my protection had become a prison.
“Marcus,” I commanded, my voice dropping an octave. “Leave us. Guard the door from the outside.”
Marcus hesitated, eyeing Evelyn with professional suspicion, but he nodded and stepped back into the hallway, pulling the heavy oak door shut.
The cellar grew deathly quiet once more, save for the hum of the old furnace in the corner.
“Talk,” I ordered Evelyn. “Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent me,” Evelyn replied, tucking the pendant back beneath her sweater. “I chose this house because it’s the only place in Illinois shielded well enough to hide a high-value target. And your daughter, Vincent, is the highest-value target on the board right now.”
“Explain.”
“The Chicago Outfit isn’t just fighting local street gangs anymore,” Evelyn said, stepping closer without a trace of fear. “You know that. Viktor Rostov is moving in from the East Coast. He doesn’t want your territory, Vincent. He wants your bloodline. He knows that an empire built on fear collapses the moment the patriarch’s blood is spilled. And since your wife passed, Grace is all you have left.”
“I have an army guarding this estate,” I growled.
“An army of thugs who look at doors, not shadows,” Evelyn countered sharply. “Your men are trained for shootouts, not infiltration. While you’re worrying about front-gate drive-bys, Rostov’s ghosts are learning the layout of your house. They know every hallway, every security blind spot—and they know your daughter can’t see them coming.”
Grace lowered her baton slightly, her face pale. “Is that true, Dad? Are people coming for us?”
I looked at my daughter, realizing the ugly truth had finally broken through the walls I built. I couldn’t lie to her anymore.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
May you like
Grace didn’t cry. She didn’t panic. Instead, a grim, terrifying resolve settled over her features—a look I had seen in mirrors after losing my own father.
“Then don’t fire her,” Grace said to me. “If I’m going to be a target, I’m not going to be a victim.”
