Chapter 6 - The Midnight Strike
The South Loop hotel was a discreet, six-story brick establishment that catered to out-of-town businessmen who preferred not to answer questions at check-in.
At 11:45 PM, two black armored SUVs pulled silently into the alleyway behind the building, their headlights turned off, their engines idling in the freezing night air.
Inside the lead vehicle, James sat in the rear seat, racking the slide of his custom black pistol with a crisp, terrifying metallic click.
Beside him sat Dmitri and four senior enforcers dressed in dark tactical gear.
"Room 402," Dmitri said, reviewing a digital floor plan on his tablet. "Cross has two men in the hallway, two inside the room, and two monitoring the street from the lobby."
"The two in the lobby are already secured by team two," Dmitri added with a cold smirk. "Silent."
"Good," James rasped. "We go up the fire escape. No noise until we hit 402."
Five minutes later, the heavy reinforced door of Room 402 was blown off its hinges with a concentrated breaching charge that shattered the doorframe in a cloud of dust and splintered wood.
Before the smoke could clear, James stepped through the threshold, his gun raised.
A guard near the bathroom reached for a short-barreled shotgun on the bed, but James fired two suppressed rounds into his chest before the man could clear fabric. He dropped like a sack of concrete.
A second guard in the hallway raised his pistol, but Dmitri neutralized him instantly with two quick shots.
Standing near the far window, wearing a leather jacket with his dark hair cut short and a deep jagged scar running across his left jawline, was Damon Cross.
He was a ruthless, feral man—a mid-level enforcer who had built a reputation in Detroit for unbridled violence and zero restraint.
Cross lunged for a heavy silver revolver resting on the nightstand, but James closed the distance in two broad strides, kicking the weapon out of reach and driving the heavy butt of his pistol directly into Cross’s face.
Cross slammed hard against the wall, blood spraying from his broken nose onto the floral wallpaper. He slid down to the floor, gasping for air, clutching his face.
Dmitri immediately stepped up, pinning Cross’s arms behind his back with heavy plastic zip-ties.
James stood over him, breathing calmly, his dark eyes looking down at the bleeding man as if he were an annoying insect on his shoe.
Cross spat a mouthful of blood onto the carpet, glaring up at the feared Chicago boss with wild, venomous eyes.
"Moretti..." Cross wheezed, his voice rough and hateful. "What the hell is this?! The Marcone family has a treaty with Chicago! You can't touch me!"
"The Marcone family has a treaty with me, Cross," James corrected softly, stepping on Cross’s knee with enough force to make the man grunt in pain. "You do not."
"I was looking for a girl!" Cross shouted, struggling against his bindings. "A runaway broad who stole fifty thousand dollars from my house in Detroit! It has nothing to do with you!"
"Her name was Sarah Vance," James said, his voice dropping an octave into a cold, lethal register. "She was the daughter of Marcus Vance—the man who saved my life ten years ago."
Cross’s wild eyes blinked, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his bloody face. "Vance? That old jailbird?"
"She came to my city seeking protection," James continued, leaning down until his dark eyes were inches from Cross’s nose. "And she died giving birth to a baby girl."
Cross froze. A slow, sinister realization crept across his features.
"A baby..." Cross whispered, a dark, wicked grin spreading across his split lips. "She had my baby? Where is it? Where is the kid, Moretti? That's my flesh and blood! You can't hide my child from me!"
James didn't get angry. He didn't shout.
He slowly reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a clean white silk handkerchief, and wiped a drop of blood from the sleeve of his shirt.
"You are mistaken, Cross," James whispered gently.
"Mistaken about what?!" Cross spat.
"You don't have a child," James said, his voice as unshakeable as the stone foundations of his estate. "Sarah Vance died alone in Detroit six months ago. No baby was ever born. And you... you never came to Chicago."
Cross’s eyes widened in sudden, absolute terror as he realized what James meant.
"Wait! Moretti, wait!" Cross screamed, thrashing wildly. "I'll leave! I'll go back to Detroit! I won't say a word to Marcone! I swear to God!"
James turned his back on the screaming man, stepping toward the ruined door of the hotel room.
"Dmitri," James said quietly without turning around.
"Yes, boss?"
"Clean the room. Burn the vehicles. Ensure Detroit understands that Damon Cross stole two hundred thousand dollars from his own syndicate and fled to South America."
"Consider it done, sir," Dmitri replied, pulling a heavy steel blade from his belt.
James walked out into the cold night corridor, stepping over the fallen guards, pulling his phone from his pocket as he descended the stairs.
He hit speed-dial number one.
The phone rang twice before my voice answered on the line, soft, anxious, and filled with quiet tension.
"James?"
May you like
James took a deep breath of the cold winter air as he stepped out into the quiet alleyway, his face softening instantly into a warm, devoted smile.
"It's over, Claire," James whispered softly. "Our daughter is safe. I'm coming home."
