Chapter 5 – THE CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS

The words hung in the air, defiant and impossible.

I am going to save the life of the man who murdered my father.

“Vincent, you can’t,” I breathed, stepping toward him. “Senator Marchand ordered your father’s assassination. If Silas kills him, justice is served. Why would you stop it?”

Vincent didn’t lower his weapon. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked carved from granite.

“Because if Silas kills a sitting State Senator tonight, the federal government will unleash a task force that will dismantle my entire family by sunrise,” Vincent said, his voice cold and analytical, the mafia tactician completely overriding the grieving son. “Celeste knows that. She wants me framed for the assassination. If Marchand dies, I lose everything. My people go to prison. The charity is seized. Your daughter’s scholarship vanishes.”

He looked directly into my eyes, the cold logic breaking for just a fraction of a second to reveal the agonizing sacrifice he was making.

“I have spent twelve years hunting the man who killed my father, Denise,” Vincent whispered, a dark, heavy sorrow in his tone. “And tonight, I have to keep him alive to protect my family.”

He turned on his heel and strode out of the interrogation room.

“Marco, get the tactical team ready,” Vincent barked as he walked down the warehouse corridor. “We hit the campaign headquarters in ten minutes.”

“I’m coming with you,” I said, chasing after him.

Vincent stopped, turning to glare at me. “Absolutely not. You are going back to the penthouse. This is a tactical breach against a professional hitman. You are a civilian.”

“I am the only civilian Silas knows is involved!” I argued, adrenaline fueling my recklessness. “Greg said Silas approached him. Silas knows about me. If things go wrong, if you need a distraction, I can provide it.”

“No,” Vincent said firmly, his eyes dark with protective fury. “I am not risking your life.”

“You already risked your life for my daughter tonight, Vincent,” I countered, standing my ground. “Let me help you save yours.”

Vincent stared at me, the fierce determination in my eyes matching his own. He knew I wouldn’t take no for an answer. He knew I had survived twelve years of poverty and an abusive ex-husband by refusing to back down.

“Get in the armored SUV,” Vincent grunted finally, turning away. “You stay in the vehicle. If you step out without my order, I will have Marco lock you in the trunk.”

“Deal,” I said, hurrying after him.

The drive to downtown Chicago was a tense, silent blur. Marco drove the heavily armored SUV, weaving through the late-night traffic with practiced, dangerous precision. Vincent sat in the passenger seat, loading heavy magazines into an assault rifle.

The rain had stopped, leaving the city slick and gleaming under the amber streetlights.

We pulled up to the towering glass skyscraper that housed Senator Marchand’s campaign headquarters. The building was dark, save for the top floor, which glowed brightly against the night sky.

“The Senator’s private office is on the 40th floor,” Marco reported, checking a digital blueprint on a tablet. “He has private security in the lobby, but they’re rent-a-cops. They won’t stop Silas.”

“They won’t stop us, either,” Vincent said, chambering a round.

He turned to me in the backseat. “Lock the doors, Denise. Do not move.”

Vincent and Marco stepped out into the damp night air, flanked by four heavily armed Caruso enforcers. They didn’t try to sneak in. They marched directly through the revolving glass doors of the lobby.

I watched through the tinted windows as the private security guards immediately raised their hands, terrified by the sheer, overwhelming force of a mafia strike team entering their building. Vincent didn’t even slow down; he bypassed the desk and keyed a master override into the VIP elevator.

The doors closed, taking them up to the 40th floor.

I sat in the silence of the SUV, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The minutes stretched into an agonizing eternity. I stared at the top floor of the skyscraper, praying to see movement, praying to hear from Vincent.

Suddenly, a massive, concussive BOOM echoed down the street.

The top floor of the skyscraper erupted in a shower of shattered glass. A fireball burst outward, illuminating the night sky, sending shards of heavy plate glass raining down onto the pavement below.

“Vincent!” I screamed, slamming my hands against the bulletproof window.

The explosion had blown out the entire corner office. Smoke billowed from the 40th floor.

My radio, sitting on the center console, crackled violently with static.

“Boss! Boss, do you copy?!” a panicked enforcer yelled over the comms.

Silence.

“Marco, respond! We have a breach on 40! The office is rigged!”

Still silence.

I couldn’t stay in the car. I couldn’t sit there while the man who had protected my daughter burned in a skyscraper.

I unlocked the door and threw it open, sprinting across the wet pavement toward the shattered lobby doors.

The rent-a-cops were cowering under their desk, ignoring me completely as I sprinted past them and slammed my hand on the call button for the service elevator. It arrived instantly, dinging cheerfully in the chaotic lobby.

I rode it to the 40th floor, my breath coming in short, terrified gasps.

When the doors opened, the hallway was a warzone. Thick black smoke choked the air. The fire sprinklers had activated, raining down a torrential, synthetic downpour. The heavy oak doors of the Senator’s office had been blown completely off their hinges.

“Vincent!” I coughed, pulling my shirt over my mouth as I stumbled into the ruined office.

The room was destroyed. The massive mahogany desk was splintered in half. Small fires burned in the carpet.

Lying on the floor near the doorway, covered in soot and groaning in pain, was Marco.

“Marco!” I rushed over, dropping to my knees. “Where is Vincent?!”

Marco coughed violently, pointing a trembling finger toward the shattered, floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Silas,” Marco wheezed, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead. “It was a trap. Silas rigged the door. He was waiting for us.”

I looked toward the gaping hole where the window used to be.

Standing on the narrow, terrified ledge of the 40th floor, suspended over the deadly drop to the city street below, was Senator Marchand. The powerful politician was weeping, his expensive suit ruined, clinging desperately to the metal window frame.

And standing right behind him on the ledge, holding a heavy, suppressed pistol to the Senator’s head, was a tall, unnervingly calm man in a dark trench coat.

Silas. The hitman.

But it wasn’t the hitman that made my heart stop.

Kneeling on the glass-strewn floor of the office, his assault rifle kicked out of reach, was Vincent.

He was bleeding from a shrapnel wound on his shoulder, his face pale but his eyes burning with absolute, defiant rage as he stared at the man who had murdered his father.

“Well, well,” Silas smiled, his voice smooth and cultured, carrying easily over the wind howling through the broken window. “The great Vincent Caruso, brought to his knees. It’s almost poetic that you die trying to save the man who paid me to kill your father.”

“Let him go, Silas,” Vincent demanded, his voice a low rumble. “You have no beef with me. Your contract is with Celeste.”

“Ah, yes. The lovely Celeste,” Silas chuckled. “She paid handsomely. But she’s an amateur. She thought she could hire me to kill her father and frame you. But I’m a professional, Vincent. I like to tie up all my loose ends.”

Silas pressed the barrel harder against the Senator’s trembling head.

“I’m going to throw the Senator off this ledge,” Silas explained calmly. “And then I’m going to put a bullet between your eyes, Vincent. The police will find you with the murder weapon. A tragic murder-suicide. The perfect cover for my retirement.”

Silas raised his gun, aiming it squarely at Vincent’s head.

“Goodbye, Vincent.”

I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t let him die.

I grabbed the heavy, jagged shard of plate glass resting near Marco’s boots, stood up, and screamed at the top of my lungs.

“SILAS!”

The hitman flinched, surprised by the sudden noise, his aim wavering for a fraction of a second as he looked toward me.

It was all Vincent needed.

With explosive, terrifying speed, Vincent lunged forward from his knees. He didn’t go for the gun. He went for the man.

Vincent tackled Silas with the force of a freight train, driving both of them violently out the shattered window and into the empty, howling abyss of the Chicago night.

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