Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Family Tree
The basement office of the Mercer estate was a fortress beneath a fortress. Reinforced steel walls, soundproof padding, and a bank of monitors displaying every corner of the property made it the ultimate nerve center. Down here, the sweet smells of Christmas dinner were replaced by the cold, metallic scent of gun oil and old paper.
Roman sat behind his desk, pouring himself a tumbler of scotch from a fresh bottle he had unsealed himself. Across from him stood Salvatore, holding a tablet with running security logs and financial records.
"The test results came back from our medic upstairs," Salvatore reported, his weathered face grim. "Potassium cyanide mixed with a heavy sedative. Enough to kill three grown men within five minutes of swallowing. If you had taken even a tiny sip to toast the family..."
"I would have choked on my own tongue in front of my daughter," Roman finished the sentence, his jaw clenching tightly. He took a slow sip of his scotch. "And Marcus was standing right behind me. The second I hit the floor, he would have declared a state of emergency, locked down the building, and secured the vault."
"It wasn't just Marcus and Katherine," Salvatore said, tapping the tablet screen. "We ran the phone logs on Marcus’s encrypted device. He wasn't taking orders from Katherine. She was just the insider inside the house. The orders came from outside."
Roman raised an eyebrow. "From who?"
"Julian," Salvatore pronounced the name with heavy disgust.
Julian Mercer. Roman’s younger half-brother, who had been exiled to the syndicate’s Miami operations three years ago after attempting to skim millions off the family’s shipping lines. He had been forbidden from returning to Chicago under pain of death.
"Julian thinks he can come back and take the seat because he has backing," Roman muttered, leaning back in his leather chair. "Who is funding him?"
"The Moretti family out of New York," Salvatore replied. "They’ve been trying to get a foothold in our Great Lakes shipping routes for a decade. With you dead, and a three-year-old child as your sole heir, Julian would have claimed 'guardianship' over Clara, taken control of your assets, and handed the shipping lines to Moretti on a silver platter."
Roman’s eyes flickered with dangerous light. "They used my stepmother’s jealousy and my cousin’s greed. A classic play. But they made one mistake."
"They underestimated the child," Salvatore said softly.
"No," Roman corrected. "They assumed a child doesn't notice things. People speak freely in front of toddlers because they think their brains are empty slate. They think a three-year-old only cares about toys and candy. But Clara watches everything. She’s been watching Katherine for months."
"What do we do with Katherine and Marcus?" Salvatore asked. "They're tied up in the wine cellar right now. Marcus is bleeding, but he hasn't broken completely yet."
"Keep Marcus alive for now," Roman ordered. "I want him to witness Julian’s arrival. Katherine... feed her cold bread and water. No medical attention. She sits in the dark until I say otherwise."
Suddenly, the intercom on Roman’s desk buzzed. The voice of Viktor came through, laced with urgency.
"Boss, you need to check monitor four. We’ve got movement at the north gate."
Roman quickly tapped a key on his console, bringing up the video feed for the north entrance of the estate. Through the heavy snowfall, three dark SUVs had pulled up to the security gates. The gates were slowly opening—opened from the inside using an administrative security code that only three people possessed.
One was Roman. One was Salvatore. The third belonged to Marcus.
"Julian is already here," Salvatore growled, pulling his custom Sig Sauer pistol from its holster and checking the chamber. "He didn't even wait for Marcus to confirm your death. He assumed the poison worked."
"He was so confident," Roman said, rising from his chair and reaching into his desk drawer to pull out his own weapon—a matte-black Kimber 1911. "He thought he was coming to a funeral and a coronation."
"How do you want to handle this, Boss? Should I alert the guards at the perimeter?"
"No," Roman said, a cold, ruthless smile spreading across his lips. "Let them drive right up to the front doors. Let Julian step inside thinking he’s the new king of Chicago. I want to see the look on his face when he finds out his crown is made of lead."
Roman turned toward the door, then stopped. "Salvatore, make sure two men stay outside Clara’s room. If a single bullet travels near her floor, I’ll personally skin whoever fired it."
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"Understood, Roman."
As Roman walked out of the basement office, the heavy iron boots of his loyal capos echoed behind him. The silent house was about to become a battleground, and the Christmas snow outside was going to turn very red before the night was over.
