Chapter 2 - The Wrath of the Rossi
The private airstrip at O’Hare International was usually a place of quiet, orderly departures for private jets heading to the Caribbean or New York. Tonight, it was a war zone of silent, terrifying efficiency.
Leo Rossi did not run. Men who run look frantic. Leo walked with the measured, terrifying speed of an avalanche.
His custom charcoal overcoat billowed behind him as he descended the mobile stairs of his twin-engine Gulfstream, which had touched down forty-two minutes after his conversation with Beatrice. Waiting at the tarmac edge were three black SUVs, their engines idling, headlights cutting through the damp Chicago fog.
“Status?” Leo asked, not breaking stride as his head of security, a hulking ex-military operative named Marcus, fell into step beside him.
“We’re two minutes from the estate,” Marcus said, his voice clipped. “I’ve already pulled local traffic cameras. No police dispatched. The perimeter guards report everything looks quiet from the outside. Miss Kensington dismissed the evening detail at 0800 hours under your name.”
Leo stopped dead in his tracks. The temperature around him seemed to drop ten degrees. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto Marcus.
“My name?”
“She used a forged digital sign-off, boss. It cleared the gates an hour before you flew out.”
Leo didn't speak. He climbed into the backseat of the lead SUV, pulled a heavy, matte-black Sig Sauer pistol from his shoulder holster, checked the magazine with a sharp clack, and slid it back into place.
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“If a single hair on my daughter’s head is harmed,” Leo whispered, his voice smooth as polished obsidian, “Victoria Kensington will not see the sun rise. And neither will anyone who helped her.”
The SUV tires screeched against the asphalt as the convoy tore out of the airfield, racing toward the North Shore mansion like a pack of wolves smelling blood in the snow.
