Chapter 8 - The Siege of North Hills
At 4:15 a.m., three unmarked black SUVs tore through the wrought-iron gates of the Vance estate in the wealthy enclave of North Hills.
There was no sound of gunfire—only the muffled thwip-thwip of suppressed sidearms taking out the perimeter security cameras and the two guards stationed at the front doors before they could even draw their weapons.
Vincent kicked open the massive oak front doors, stepping into a vaulted marble foyer lined with expensive modern art and gold-leaf mirrors.
"Clear the ground floor!" Vincent commanded.
His men fan-out like shadows, moving from room to room with practiced, lethal precision. Within ninety seconds, the remaining three guards on the property were disarmed, zip-tied, and forced onto the living room floor.
Vincent walked straight into Victor’s private office.
On the desk sat a high-end laptop connected to a secure satellite node.
Vincent pulled out a portable data terminal, linking it to the laptop. "Deploy the override code from Leo’s drive," he told Tony, who was standing beside him.
"Codes accepted," Tony said, watching the progress bar on his screen fly from zero to one hundred percent. "We’ve got master control of all Vance family accounts. Over forty-two million dollars in liquid funds, twenty-six commercial property deeds, and the full register of offshore shell accounts."
"Reroute everything to the Torino Family Charitable Foundation and the court-ordered trust for Emma Vane," Vincent ordered. "Leave exactly one dollar in his primary account."
"Done," Tony grinned darkly. "He’s broke, Boss."
Suddenly, the satellite phone on the desk began to ring.
Vincent didn't rush. He reached out, picked up the handset, and pressed it to his ear.
"Did you take the bait, cousin?" Victor’s voice came through the speaker, arrogant and triumphant over the crackle of static. "Are you standing in the rain outside the old foundry right now? Because my snipers are looking at your convoy—"
"I’m sitting in your leather chair, Victor," Vincent interrupted quietly.
The line went dead silent.
"What did you say?" Victor rasped, his voice suddenly losing its cocky edge.
"I said I’m in your office," Vincent repeated smoothly, picking up a silver fountain pen from Victor’s desk and examining it under the desk lamp. "It’s a nice view of the gardens. Though I imagine you won't see many gardens where you're going."
"You... you went to North Hills?!" Victor screamed into the phone. "You coward! Fight me like a man!"
"I fought you like a chief executive, Victor," Vincent said softly. "Your bank accounts are empty. Your property deeds belong to a trust for Elena’s daughter. And three minutes ago, Marcus transmitted the decrypted wiretap files from Leo’s drive directly to the United States Attorney’s Office."
A loud siren began to wail in the background on Victor’s end of the phone—the unmistakable sound of federal tactical vehicles surrounding the iron foundry on the South Side.
"No... no!" Victor shrieked, his voice breaking into frantic panic. "Vincent! Wait! We’re family! We can work this out! I’ll give you the Thompson shipment! I’ll give you everything!"
"You had a family, Victor," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute finality. "Her name was Elena. And you let her die in exile so you could chase money you don't even have anymore."
Vincent clicked the red button on the phone, terminating the call.
May you like
He stood up, looking around the opulent office one last time, then turned toward the door.
"Burn the server drives," Vincent told Tony. "We're going home."
