Chicago never truly slept.
It only watched.
From the thirty-second floor of his glass fortress overlooking the city, Luca DeRossi stood with one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a crystal glass of untouched whiskey.
Below him, the city lights flickered like nervous stars.
Behind him, a man begged.
"I swear on my mother, I didn't betray you."
Luca didn't turn around.
He didn't need to.
He could hear fear the way sharks sensed blood in water.
"Everyone swears on something," Luca said quietly. "Family. God. Themselves."
His voice was calm. Smooth. Deadly.
The man was on his knees, wrists zip-tied, face swollen from earlier persuasion.
"The shipment was rerouted! I didn't know—"
"You were in charge."
Silence.
The air shifted.
Luca finally turned.
His face was carved from stone. Dark suit. No tie. Black shirt unbuttoned at the collar. A thin scar traced his jaw — a reminder that mercy was weakness.
He crouched slowly in front of the man.
"You know what makes betrayal worse than death?"
The man shook his head violently, tears streaming.
"Disappointment."
Luca pulled a gun from inside his jacket.
The shot was soft.
The body fell backward.
Two of Luca's men stepped forward immediately, dragging the corpse away without expression.
Luca rose, adjusting his cuffs as if he had just finished a meeting.
"Find out who fed him the information," he ordered.
"Yes, Boss."
"And burn the warehouse."
A pause.
"With them inside?"
Luca's eyes were colder than the lake in winter.
"Did I stutter?"
The men moved quickly.
When the doors shut behind them, Luca exhaled slowly.
Another leak. Another traitor.
Someone was targeting him carefully. Not recklessly.
Strategically.
And that irritated him.
He walked back to the window, watching the red tail lights disappear below.
His empire had been untouchable for ten years.
Until now.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
His right-hand man, Matteo, stepped inside.
"There's something else," Matteo said cautiously.
Luca didn't look at him.
"Speak."
"The trail doesn't just point to our own men."
Now Luca turned.
Matteo swallowed. "It leads to the Volkov family."
The room grew colder.
The Volkovs.
Russian syndicate. Brutal. Old money. Older grudges.
Luca's jaw tightened.
"They've been quiet for years," he said.
"Too quiet," Matteo replied. "And there's something else. The intel was traced to someone attending the Moretti Foundation gala tomorrow night."
Luca's gaze sharpened.
"A charity event?"
"Yes."
Luca gave a slow, humorless smile.
"How poetic."
He walked toward his desk, picking up the file Matteo placed there.
A photograph slipped out.
A woman.
Dark hair cascading over one shoulder. Sharp cheekbones. Eyes that didn't smile even though her lips did.
Elegant. Untouchable.
Dangerous.
"Who is she?" Luca asked.
Matteo hesitated. "That's the complication."
Luca's eyes lifted.
"She's the daughter."
A beat of silence.
"Daughter of who?"
"Sergei Volkov."
The name settled heavily between them.
The Russian kingpin himself.
Luca studied the photograph again.
Amara Volkov.
She didn't look afraid.
She looked aware.
As if she knew secrets no one else did.
"When was this taken?" Luca asked.
"Two days ago. She arrived in Chicago quietly."
"And no one informed me?"
"We didn't know until now."
Luca's fingers tapped against the desk once.
"She's attending the gala?"
"Yes."
Luca picked up his jacket.
"Prepare the car."
Matteo blinked. "Tomorrow?"
"No," Luca said smoothly. "Tonight."
He walked past Matteo without another word.
Because if the Volkovs wanted to play games—
He would raise the stakes.
And daughters made excellent leverage.
Across the city, in a luxury penthouse suite, Amara Volkov stood in front of a mirror.
She removed a diamond earring slowly, placing it on the marble counter.
Her phone buzzed.
A coded message.
He knows.
Her lips curved faintly.
"Good," she murmured.
She looked at her reflection.
Not nervous.
Not shaken.
Just ready.
Because she hadn't come to Chicago to hide.
She had come to start a war.
And she wanted Luca DeRossi to notice.