Chapter 1 - The Chicago Lie
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Victor Costa adjusted the heavy collar of his wool overcoat, letting the chill of the gray Westchester morning bite at his neck. The engine of his black SUV idled in the circular driveway, a low, predatory growl that matched the tension coiling in his chest. Standing on the grand stone steps of the estate was Audrey. She looked immaculate, as she always did. Her blonde hair was swept back into an effortless knot, her cashmere sweater draped perfectly over her shoulders. She smiled, a radiant expression that had once blinded him to the shadows underneath.
“Call me when you land in Chicago,” Audrey said, stepping forward to press a soft kiss against his cheek. Her perfume, an expensive blend of jasmine and vanilla, filled his senses.
“I will,” Victor lied, his voice a smooth, practiced baritone. “It’s going to be a long week of meetings. I hate leaving you alone with the house.”
“Don't be silly, Victor,” she replied, her eyes widening with perfectly manufactured innocence. “I have everything under control here. And please, do not worry about Sylvia. I’ll make sure she’s comfortable while you're gone. Family takes care of family, right?”
Victor forced his mouth into a tight, appreciative smile. He squeezed her hand, feeling the cold metal of her engagement ring—a five-carat diamond he had bought to secure an alliance with her father, a prominent federal judge.
“I know you will,” Victor said.
He climbed into the back of the SUV. The tinted windows rolled up, sealing him in the quiet interior. His driver, a scarred, fiercely loyal lieutenant named Carlo, put the car in gear and pulled away from the estate. They drove in complete silence for exactly three miles, passing the towering oak trees that lined the private road.
“Pull over,” Victor commanded.
Carlo didn't ask questions. He pulled the heavy vehicle onto a secluded dirt access road and parked beneath the canopy of naked autumn branches.
“We aren't going to the airport, boss?” Carlo asked, looking into the rearview mirror.
May you like
“No,” Victor said, unbuttoning his coat. “Take me back through the service entrance. Drop me at the old wine cellar doors. And Carlo? If anyone asks, I boarded a private jet an hour ago.”
Carlo nodded grimly. Victor stared out the tinted window as the car turned around. Officially, the head of the Costa syndicate was in Chicago. Unofficially, he was going hunting inside his own home.
