Chapter 9 - THE CROWN RECLAIMED
The wait was worse than the running.
For four hours, Theo and I sat in an idling car surrounded by heavily armed guards, staring at the Chicago skyline across the water. I listened to the police scanners crackle with static, waiting for reports of a bloodbath downtown.
At 4:00 AM, the radio sparked to life. A massive disturbance at the Russo holdings. Shots fired. Multiple casualties.
My stomach dropped. I pulled Theo closer, hiding his face in my coat. We waited. The fog began to lift, turning the sky a bruised, slate gray. Sunrise was coming.
At 5:30 AM, a pair of headlights pierced the gloom, rolling slowly into the shipyard. Enzo and the guards raised their weapons, tense as coiled springs.
A single black car pulled to a stop. The driver's side door opened.
Julian stepped out.
He was bruised, his suit was torn, and he looked like a man who had walked through hell, but he was standing tall. There was a profound stillness around him now—not the coiled tension of a hunted man, but the settled, heavy peace of a king who had reclaimed his throne.
Theo broke away from me, running across the damp concrete. "Papa!"
Julian dropped to his knees, catching his son in his good arm, burying his face in Theo's hair. I watched them, feeling a sudden, sharp ache in my chest. They were safe. It was over.
Julian stood, holding Theo's hand, and walked over to the station wagon. He looked at me, exhaustion etched deep into his features, but his eyes were clear.
"Russo?" I asked.
"Gone," Julian said simply. "The city is mine again. And it will be quiet now."
May you like
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the cracked watch, handing it back to Theo. The boy took it, tracing the engraving with his thumb, and smiled. A real, genuine smile.
"Come, Delia," Julian said, opening the car door for me. "Let's get you out of the cold."
