Chapter 10 – THE FEDERAL PENITENTIARY

The Metropolitan Correctional Center loomed like a concrete fortress against the grey Chicago skyline.

Alessandro used his immense influence and a team of high-powered attorneys to secure a ten-minute private interview with Marco before he was officially processed into federal custody.

I sat next to Alessandro in the bleak, fluorescent-lit interrogation room. The metal table between us felt cold and unforgiving.

The heavy steel door opened, and Marco was escorted in by two armed guards. He was in an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed to a belly chain. The smug arrogance from the night before was entirely gone. He looked terrified.

He sat down across from us, his eyes darting nervously to the security camera in the corner.

“I didn’t talk,” Marco blurted out immediately, looking at Alessandro. “I swear to God, Sandro, I didn’t give them anything on the family.”

“I don’t care what you told the Feds, Marco,” Alessandro said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I care about the gallery.”

Marco blinked, confused. “The West Side gallery? What about it?”

Alessandro slid a printed photograph of the burned-out building across the table. Marco leaned forward to look at it.

When Marco saw the red sailboat spray-painted on the brick wall, all the color drained from his face. He actually trembled, the chains rattling against the metal table.

“No,” Marco whispered. “No, he said he wouldn’t get involved. He promised me.”

“Who, Marco?” Alessandro demanded, leaning forward.

Marco shook his head frantically. “You don’t understand. The art theft… it wasn’t just to get the shipping company. It was to pay him back.”

“Pay who back?” I asked, frustration leaking into my voice.

Marco looked at me, his eyes wide with genuine horror.

“The original buyer,” Marco whispered. “The man Camille’s brother promised the eleven paintings to. The man I borrowed five million dollars from to fund this entire operation.”

Alessandro’s eyes darkened. “Give me a name.”

Marco swallowed hard. “Viktor Volkov.”

Alessandro froze. Even I had heard that name on the local news. Viktor Volkov was the head of the Russian syndicate in Chicago. A man so ruthless he made the old Italian bosses look like choir boys.

“Volkov,” Alessandro repeated, his voice deadly quiet. “You brought the Russians into my house?”

“I had to!” Marco pleaded, tears springing to his eyes. “He fronted the money to bribe the guards, to hire the tactical team! He wanted the art collection as payment. When you intercepted the paintings at the airport, I defaulted on the loan.”

Marco pointed a shaking, cuffed finger at the photo of the burned gallery.

“The sailboat. He knows about the painting. He knows it means something to you.” Marco looked desperately at Alessandro. “He burned the gallery to show you he can reach out and touch you. Sandro, you have to protect me. If they put me in general population, Volkov’s men will kill me before dinner!”

Alessandro stared at his cousin for a long, quiet moment.

Then, he stood up.

“Enjoy the cafeteria food, Marco,” Alessandro said coldly.

“Sandro, please!” Marco screamed as we turned to leave. “He doesn’t just want the money anymore! He wants the boy!”

Alessandro stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned around.

“What did you say?”

“Volkov knows about Leo,” Marco babbled rapidly. “He knows Leo is the heir. He told me if I failed to deliver the art, he would take the boy and hold him for ransom. He knows where the safe house is!”

“Leo isn’t at the safe house,” I said confidently. “He’s at the mansion. Behind twenty armed guards.”

Marco laughed, a hysterical, broken sound.

“You think gates stop Volkov? He owns half the police force! He owns the judges!” Marco slammed his cuffed hands on the table. “He’s coming for Leo, Sandro! And you can’t stop him!”

Alessandro didn’t say another word. He grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the interrogation room.

As we speed-walked down the linoleum hallway of the prison, Alessandro pulled out his phone and dialed Rossi.

“Rossi,” Alessandro barked as soon as it connected. “Pull every man off the perimeter. Move Leo to the panic room in the sub-basement. Nobody gets in or out.”

Static crackled on the line.

“Boss,” Rossi’s voice sounded strained, breathless. “We have a situation at the estate.”

“What kind of situation?”

“The police are here. Two dozen cruisers. They have a warrant.”

“A warrant for what?” Alessandro yelled, pushing through the exit doors into the bright sunlight.

“They’re not here for you, Boss,” Rossi said. “They have a warrant for Child Protective Services. They’re here to take Leo into state custody.”

Alessandro stopped walking.

Volkov hadn’t sent hitmen. He had sent the state.

And if Leo went into the foster care system, Volkov’s men would snatch him before the sun went down.

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