Chapter 9 - The Target Painted
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The Ivanov family did not operate with the quiet, calculated precision of my father’s syndicate. They were brutal, loud, and relied on overwhelming force. Sergei Ivanov had spent years watching my father monopolize the lucrative shipping ports of Chicago, waiting for a moment of weakness.
The public humiliation at the gala was exactly the crack in the armor Sergei needed. It proved that Michael Carter’s daughter was out in the open, vulnerable and exposed to the unpredictable chaos of the city.
Inside a heavily guarded meatpacking plant on the outskirts of the city, Sergei stood before a table covered in blueprints and surveillance photographs.
“The girl is the key,” Sergei told his assembled lieutenants, pointing a thick finger at a photograph of me leaving the community center. “Carter controls his men with money and fear. But he controls the girl with love. If we take her, Carter will surrender the ports to secure her release. Once the paperwork is signed, we kill them both.”
One of the lieutenants, a scarred man named Yuri, frowned. “She is guarded by Daniel Russo. He is a ghost, Boss. He moves fast, and he doesn't miss.”
“Russo is just a bodyguard,” Sergei spat dismissively. “He is one man against an army. Preston Hale has provided us with the security overrides for the Bellweather garage. We will not hit her at the community center; it is too public. We hit her in transit.”
Sergei tapped a map displaying the highway routes between my apartment and the downtown district.
“Tomorrow night, she is attending a private dinner with her father at the Bellweather. Russo will be driving her. We ambush the vehicle on the lower wacker drive tunnel,” Sergei instructed, his eyes gleaming with malicious anticipation. “We box them in. Disable the vehicle. Kill Russo, and take the girl alive.”
“And if Carter’s backup arrives?” Yuri asked.
“They won't,” Sergei smiled cruelly. “Because while we are taking the girl, our secondary teams will be launching firebomb attacks on three of Carter’s primary warehouses. His men will be too busy fighting fires to realize the princess has been stolen from her carriage.”
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The plan was set. The trap was laid.
Oblivious to the crosshairs painting my back, I was sitting in my apartment, staring at a closet full of clothes, trying to find something to wear to a dinner I desperately wanted to avoid. I didn't know that my father’s enemies had finally decided to use me as collateral. I only knew that my life was unraveling, and the man assigned to protect me was currently leaning against my kitchen counter, drinking my coffee, and watching me with eyes that saw entirely too much.
