Chapter 5 - The Gathering Storm
By midnight, the Greystone Manor had been transformed into an armed fortress.
Marcus had brought in six of their most trusted enforcers from the Newark docks—men who owed their lives to Logan, men who didn't ask questions when the boss said war was coming. They took up positions at the gates, along the perimeter stone walls, and inside the grand foyer.
Upstairs, Nova and Luna were tucked safely into the guest suite, asleep in clean pajamas Marcus had managed to source from a safe house in Hackensack.
Logan sat in the grand study by the unlit fireplace, cleaning his pistol with meticulous precision. Each part was disassembled, wiped down with oil, and reassembled with mechanical perfection.
The encrypted burner phone on the mahogany desk buzzed.
Logan picked it up on the first ring.
“Yeah,” Logan said.
“Boss,” Marcus’s voice came through the speaker, tight and controlled. “We got movement on the private access road. Two black town cars. No headlights. They just bypassed the outer motion sensors using an override code.”
Logan’s lips curved into a cold, hard line. “An override code. Only three people in the organization have that code.”
“Me, you, and Vincent,” Marcus said.
“Let them through the gates,” Logan instructed calmly. “Let them park by the fountain. And Marcus? Don't let anyone leave.”
“Consider it done.”
Logan hung up, pocketed the burner phone, grabbed his coat, and walked out into the grand foyer.
Outside, the rain had finally stopped, leaving a heavy, mist-choked silence hanging over the Hudson Valley. Two black Lincoln Town Cars glided up the gravel drive, their tires crunching softly against the stones before stopping right where the fake driver’s Cadillac had idled days ago.
The rear door of the lead car opened, and Uncle Vincent stepped out.
At sixty-five, Vincent Marchetti still looked like a titan of industry. Dressed in a bespoke cashmere overcoat, silver hair combed back with immaculate precision, a gold signet ring catching the pale moonlight, he looked every bit the patriarch of the East Coast underworld.
Two armed bodyguards stepped out behind him, their hands resting inside their coats.
Vincent walked up the front steps, pausing as the heavy oak door swung open before he could even knock.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the warm amber light of the foyer, was Logan.
Vincent offered a warm, avuncular smile, spreading his arms slightly. “Logan, my boy! What is the meaning of this late-night summons? Marcus sounded frantic on the phone, saying you were out here at Greystone alone. You know this place isn't safe for you—too many ghosts.”
Logan didn't move. He didn't smile. He just stared at his uncle with eyes so dead and cold that Vincent’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
“Ghosts are easy to deal with, Uncle Vinnie,” Logan said softly. “It’s the living bastards who lie to your face for eight years that give you a headache.”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed slightly, the grandfatherly warmth vanishing instantly, replaced by the calculating coldness of a seasoned boss.
“I don't know what kind of game you’re playing, Logan,” Vincent said, taking a step toward the threshold. “But step aside. We need to talk inside.”
“We can talk right here,” Logan said, blocking the doorway entirely. “Or better yet, we can talk about what happened eight years ago. About the car that went off the cliff. About the ledger you left on my father’s desk. And about the stone cottage by the old mill.”
The color drained from Vincent’s face. It was a subtle shift, but to a man who lived in a world of micro-expressions, it was neon bright.
Vincent’s bodyguards immediately tensed, their hands twitching inside their coats.
Before their fingers could wrap around the grips of their weapons, the shadows along the porch erupted. Marcus and four enforcers stepped out from the darkness, the cold steel barrels of shotguns and submachine guns pressing directly against the backs and ribs of Vincent’s men.
“Don't even think about it,” Marcus hissed, kicking the legs of one bodyguard out from under him and disarming him in a single fluid motion.
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Vincent didn't look at his guards. He kept his eyes locked on Logan, realizing with chilling certainty that the trap hadn't been his.
It had been waiting for him all along.
