Chapter 8 - The Crimson Target
The peace did not last.
Two weeks after that dinner in the Gold Coast, the fragile truce between Chicago’s underground factions began to fracture. Rival syndicates, unnerved by the sudden and aggressive consolidation of power by the Moretti family—and rumored to be backing a new, reckless player trying to carve out territory in Lincoln Park—started testing the boundaries.
It happened on a rainy Thursday afternoon.
Amelia was arranging a cluster of deep red crimson peonies on her work table when the bell above the door chimed.
She didn't look up immediately, trimming a stem with her floral shears. “Welcome to Brooks and Bloom, I’ll be right with—'
The heavy thud of boots stepping onto the hardwood floor wasn't the polite tread of a regular customer. There were three of them. They wore dark leather jackets, their faces partially obscured by the hoods of their raincoats, and they moved with a synchronized, threatening precision that made the hair on the back of Amelia’s neck stand up.
Amelia slowly set down the shears. “We’re closing up early today. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
The lead man, a scarred brute with a gold tooth and cold, dead eyes, didn't smile. He pulled a heavy revolver from beneath his jacket, resting the barrel casually against a display shelf of ceramic pots.
“We aren't here for flowers, sweetheart,” the man rasped, his voice echoing in the small shop. “We’re here to send a message to your very wealthy, very protective boyfriend.”
Amelia’s heart slammed against her ribs. She took a slow step backward toward the counter where her panic button—directly wired to Grant Mercer’s private security detail—sat hidden beneath the register.
“I don't know what you’re talking about,” she said, keeping her voice remarkably steady.
“Sure you don't,” the brute sneered, stepping closer, his boots crunching over fallen rose petals. “Dante Moretti thinks he owns the North Side now. He thinks he can rewrite the rules and buy up every block without paying the toll. Well, we figured the best way to remind him who actually runs these streets is to take his favorite new toy for a little ride.”
The second man lunged forward, grabbing Amelia by the arm before she could reach the counter.
Amelia screamed, lashing out with her heel and catching the man squarely in the shin. He cursed, striking her across the face with the back of his hand. The blow sent her crashing backward into a display of glass vases, shattering them into a glittering cascade across the floor.
Before the lead man could grab her again, the front window of the shop exploded inward in a deafening roar of shattering glass and splintering wood.
A black tactical flash-bang grenade rolled across the floor, hissing white-hot smoke and filling the room with blinding, disorienting light.
Before the three intruders could even draw their weapons, heavy combat boots slammed through the shattered storefront. Grant Mercer and four tactical operatives descended upon them like avenging angels.
Within three seconds, all three intruders were pinned face-down to the floor, their arms wrenched behind their backs with bone-cracking force, their weapons kicked across the room.
The heavy smoke cleared to reveal Dante Moretti standing in the ruined doorway of the flower shop.
His coat was soaked with rain. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated, apocalyptic fury. His eyes locked onto Amelia, who was struggling to her feet amid the broken glass and scattered roses, a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of her lip.
The temperature in the room dropped below freezing.
Dante walked slowly across the ruined floor, stepping over the pinned intruders as if they were nothing more than insects. He stopped in front of Amelia, his large hands gently, frantically framing her face, his thumbs wiping away the blood with terrifying tenderness.
“Did they touch you?” Dante whispered, his voice trembling with a rage so deep it felt like the earth was splitting beneath their feet.
Amelia looked up into his stormy grey eyes, her breath catching in her throat.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, her hands resting against his chest, feeling the violent, frantic hammering of his heart. “Dante... they said they wanted to send you a message.”
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Dante slowly turned his head, looking down at the scarred brute pinned to the floor beneath Grant Mercer’s boot.
“Take them to the warehouse on the river,” Dante ordered, his voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute death. “Don't kill them quickly. Make sure they understand every single second of what happens when you decide to touch what belongs to a Moretti.”
