The Shadow of the Duca

The private Gulfstream jet cut through the stormy night sky above the Midwest, its cabin bathed in soft blue LED lighting. Below us, the sprawling, glittering grid of Chicago stretched out like a circuit board in the dark.

I sat by the window, staring at my reflection in the glass. My fingers were wrapped around a paper cup of cold water that Mateo had handed me an hour ago.

Across the aisle, Alessandro was hunched over a laptop, reviewing encrypted satellite imagery and financial ledgers with two of his top lieutenants who had flown in from the East Coast. He looked like an emperor planning a siege, entirely in his element, lethal and brilliant.

When the lieutenants stepped away toward the back cabin, Alessandro stood up, walked over, and slid into the leather seat directly across from me.

“You haven’t said a word in three hours,” he noted softly, his dark eyes searching my face.

“What is there to say?” I asked, keeping my gaze fixed out the window. “You kidnapped me from my apartment, dragged me into an active gang war, and now we’re flying to the headquarters of the most dangerous cartel in the country because you decided it’s time to settle a score.”

“I didn't kidnap you,” Alessandro corrected mildly. “If I had left you in Boston, the Chicago outfit would have used you as leverage within twenty-four hours. Bringing you with me was the only way to keep you breathing.”

“And what happens when we land?” I turned to look at him, the frustration finally boiling over. “Do we storm Don Luciano’s mansion with a couple of guys in suits? Do you plan on shooting your way through the entire Midwest?”

A slow, dangerous smile touched the corners of Alessandro’s mouth.

“Don Luciano thinks I’m a grieving businessman trying to rebuild a broken empire,” Alessandro said, leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “He doesn't know that for the past six months, while everyone thought I was dead, I was quietly buying up his primary debt, acquiring his shell companies, and turning his own captains against him.”

He reached out, taking my hand in his. His fingers were warm, steady, and calloused.

“By tomorrow afternoon,” Alessandro whispered, “Don Luciano won’t have an empire left to defend. And we will finally be free.”

I stared at him, seeing the fierce, unyielding devotion burning behind those midnight eyes. He had faked his death to protect me, fought his way back through blood and betrayal, and now he was laying an entire criminal underworld at my feet.

“You’re insane, Alessandro Duca,” I breathed.