Chapter 4 - The House of Cards
The Ashland Avenue warehouse was a cavernous, dimly lit brick structure that had once served as a distribution hub for the Chicago outfit’s import operations. Now, it echoed with the sound of echoing footsteps, dripping water, and the terrified whimpers of four kitchen staff members tied securely to wooden chairs.
Thomas, the head chef of the Gilded Vine, was slumped forward, a bloody split lip leaking onto his pristine white chef’s jacket.
Heavy leather boots crunched against the concrete floor. Vincent Castellano walked out of the shadows, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his knuckles bruised and raw. Behind him walked Luca, carrying a heavy steel wrench.
Vincent stopped in front of Thomas, squatting down so their eyes were level. The chef flinched, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Mr. Castellano, I swear to God, I didn't know!” Thomas sobbed, his voice cracking with hysteria. “She just showed up with forged papers six months ago! I was told to give her the night shifts and keep her isolated!”
“Who told you?” Vincent asked. His voice wasn't loud. It was terrifyingly calm.
“It was... it was a man named Sterling. He’s an executive with Harrington Logistics,” Thomas cried out, shaking uncontrollably. “He said if I let her leave the kitchen or talk to high-end clientele, my restaurant would lose its liquor license and my family would be ruined. He’s the one who dropped off the special vitamin supplements for her water bottles!”
Vincent slowly stood up. He looked at Luca. “Did you verify the Harrington accounts?”
“Found the wire transfers this morning, boss,” Luca confirmed, stepping forward and tossing a thick manila folder onto a nearby crate. “Fifty thousand dollars wired into Thomas’s offshore account every month, originating directly from Olivia Harrington’s personal trust.”
The betrayal hit Vincent like a physical blow. For eight months, while he mourned a wife he believed was dead, the woman he was scheduled to marry had been systematically hunting her down, starving her, and poisoning her child.
“Get the car,” Vincent ordered coldly.
“Boss, where are you going?” Luca asked, eyeing the blood on Vincent’s knuckles.
“The Harrington estate.”
Before Luca could argue, a sudden, sharp screech of tires echoed from outside the warehouse doors. Before anyone could draw a weapon, the heavy metal rolling door was violently rammed open by a black armored sedan.
Headlights blinded the interior of the warehouse. The doors of the sedan flew open, and a dozen heavily armed mercenaries poured out—not wearing the insignia of the Chicago outfit, but the distinct tactical gear of the Harrington private security force.
May you like
At the center of them stood Olivia Harrington, draped in an immaculate trench coat, her diamond earrings catching the harsh overhead lights. But her face was no longer that of the polite, elegant debutante. Her lips were curled into a vicious, unhinged sneer, and in her right hand, she held a compact submachine gun pointed directly at Vincent’s chest.
---
