Page 22 of His Ruthless Claim

Mario Russo's jaw tightens. His weathered face, scarred from decades of violence, betrays his displeasure. "Your father-"

"Isn't here." The words fall like ice. "The Cappalletti proposition offers better returns than our current arrangement."

"It's disrespectful," Vincent Caruso mutters, exchanging glances with the others. "We can't just-"

I cut through his words. "The numbers." My finger traces down the projection sheet. "Three million in the first quarter. Five in the second. That's double our current revenue."

The room falls silent. I note each reaction - Mario's white-knuckled grip on his armrest, Vincent's nervous swallow, Paolo's careful stillness. Their loyalty to the old ways will get them killed. I've already arranged their replacements.

"Distribution routes change next week." I continue outlining the plan, my voice steady and cold. "Mickey takes the warehouse district. Bas handles dock operations."

"Those are my men," Paolo interrupts, face flushing red.

I meet his gaze, holding it until he looks away. "Were your men. The transition starts tomorrow."

The meeting continues, numbers and territories reassigned with surgical precision. I watch Paolo text under the table - probably warning his crew. It won't matter. By morning, his body will be cooling in the Chicago River.

I won't tolerate any resistance to my switch in command.

"Any questions?" I close the ledger, my mother's watch catching the light. No one speaks. "Then we're done."

They file out, tension crackling between shoulder blades. Three deaths to ensure compliance. An acceptable cost for progress.

The next morning, the disposal sites form a neat triangle across the city. Paolo's body slides beneath the murky riverwater without a splash - his weighted ankles ensuring a direct path to the bottom. Mario's "car accident" off Lower Wacker Drive creates a spectacular scene that will keep the media occupied. Vincent's overdose in his penthouse bathroom reads like poetry - a fitting end for a man who spent decades pushing poison.

Each death serves its purpose. Clean. Efficient. The proper way to handle business.

I check my watch as I read over the reports - 7:47 AM. The silver band catches moonlight as I adjust my cuffs, mother's timepiece a steady weight against my pulse. My mind automatically calculates the most efficient route between disposal sites, then betrays me by noting each location's proximity to Skye's boutique.

Eight blocks from the river.

Twelve from Lower Wacker.

Five from Vincent's building.

My jaw clenches. These thoughts serve no purpose. They're an irritating deviation from carefully laid plans. And yet...I find myself picturing her there, arranging displays with those perfectly manicured hands, amber eyes bright as she trades barbs with customers.

The watch feels tighter against my wrist. I loosen it a notch, irked by this unwanted distraction. Sentiment is weakness. Emotion is liability. I learned that lesson watching blood pool beneath my mother's head while sirens wailed in the distance.

Instead, I try to pour myself into work.

The surveillance photos fan across my desk, a strategic map of our territory's weak points. My fingers pause over an image showing the entrance to Skye's boutique. The morning light catches the gold lettering on her window, the same rich tone as her eyes.

"Boss?" Bas shifts his weight, drawing my attention. "Something interesting about that sector?"

I force my gaze to move methodically across the other photos. "How's the new crew there?"

"Turning good numbers." He leans forward, pointing to the markers. "The guys have proven their worth and loyalty."

My jaw tightens as I note the gap in surveillance directly outside her shop. "I think we need more security - to watch them. Install another camera here." I tap the location.

Bas's eyebrows lift slightly. "That's... unusually heavy coverage for a retail area. I could send Ace to crash into their crew."

"No, I need him elsewhere. Besides, the Cappallettis have been testing boundaries." The excuse falls easily from my lips, practiced and cold. "I won't have weak points in our security."

He studies me for a moment too long, his dark eyes calculating. I meet his gaze with empty stillness until he looks away.

"There's something else." Bas slides another photo across the desk. "Our guys spotted Don Cappalletti at that boutique yesterday. Talking to the owner like they are friends."

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