Chapter 9 - Wings of Iron
A blinding blizzard had descended upon Chicago by the time my lone black Dodge Charger screamed onto the tarmac of the private aviation sector at O’Hare International Airport.
The runway lights blurred into streaks of icy blue and gold through the swirling snow.
At the far end of Hangar 4, a sleek Gulfstream G650 sat with its twin engines whining, the heat wash distorting the falling snow behind its tail. The boarding stairs were still down, but the ground crew was frantically unhooking the fuel lines.
A single black Mercedes Maybach was parked near the foot of the stairs.
I didn't bother using stealth.
I slammed the Charger through the security gate, the reinforced bull-bar shearing the chain-link fence like paper, and drifted across the icy tarmac, bringing the car to a halt twenty yards from the Gulfstream’s nose gear.
I stepped out into the biting sub-zero wind.
The snow stung my face, but I barely felt it. I held a combat shotgun in my right hand, my long coat whipping behind me in the gale.
Two armed bodyguards stepped out from behind the Maybach, raising submachine guns.
I didn't stop walking. I fired two heavy 12-gauge slugs through the windshield of the Maybach; the shrapnel and concussive blast sent both men sprawling across the frozen concrete.
Before they could recover, I was upon them. A boot to the temple of the first, a heavy point-blank shot to the chest of the second.
The boarding stairs were five feet in front of me.
The whine of the jet engines grew louder, preparing for taxi.
I charged up the stairs and kicked the hydraulic cabin door wide open.
Inside the luxurious leather-lined cabin, a woman stood near the forward galley.
She wore a long white cashmere coat, her dark raven hair falling in immaculate waves over her shoulders. She held a suppressed automatic pistol, her hands steady, her stunning emerald eyes—the exact same eyes as my little daughter Nora—locked onto mine.
Julianna.
She looked just as breathtaking, just as lethal, as the day I had put a diamond ring on her finger four years ago.
"Adrien," she said, her voice silky smooth, completely unaffected by the sub-zero wind howling through the open door. "I see Victor was as useless as ever."
"You put a weapon in their room, Julianna," I said, my voice dropping so low it cut right through the roar of the jet engines. "You put an acoustic weapon in our children's nursery."
Julianna laughed, a cold, elegant sound that chilled me more than the blizzard outside.
"They aren't *our* children, Adrien," she said, tilting her chin up proudly. "They are the heirs to the Bellini empire. My father built the foundation of this city long before your crude family crawled out of the gutters of Little Italy. I needed a surrogate because I wasn't going to ruin my body for your legacy. But their blood is mine. Their claim to the Chicago ports is mine."
"You tortured them," I stepped forward, the shotgun barrel remaining level with her heart. "You let them scream in agony for hours."
"It was a minor physiological stimulus to ensure you stayed inside the estate while Lorenzo executed the transfer codes," she said dismissively, as if discussing the weather. "The transmitter was set to low frequency. They wouldn't have died. They’re Bellinis. They’re stronger than you think."
"No," I said, taking another step. "They aren't Bellinis. They are Morettis. And you... are a ghost."
Julianna’s eyes flashed with venom. She raised her pistol to pull the trigger.
She was fast.
But a mother who abandons her children is never faster than a father who has walked through fire to protect them.
I fired.
The 12-gauge blast obliterated the weapon in her hand, the concussive force sending her crashing back against the mahogany dining table. She screamed in agony, clutching her shattered wrist, her emerald eyes finally filling with the panic she had inflicted upon my babies.
I walked over, grabbed her by the lapels of her white cashmere coat, and hoisted her up until her feet dangled above the carpet.
"You should have stayed dead, Julianna," I whispered into her face.
"You won't kill me..." she wept, blood dripping from her ruined hand onto her pristine coat. "You loved me, Adrien... you loved me more than your own life... you can't kill the mother of your children..."
I looked into the eyes of the woman I had once worshiped. The woman whose memory I had guarded like a sacred relic.
I felt nothing.
No love. No hatred. Only the cold, absolute finality of a predator protecting his den.
"The mother of my children," I said, my voice flat and final, "died the day she decided to treat them like pawns."
I didn't pull the trigger.
Instead, I pulled a pair of heavy tactical zip-ties from my belt, bound her arms behind her back, and dragged her out of the plane into the freezing snow.
Waiting on the tarmac were three black SUVs that had just arrived.
Marco stepped out of the lead vehicle, followed by two Federal Marshals whose careers I had personally funded for the past decade.
I threw Julianna into the snow at the Marshals' feet.
"This is the former Mrs. Moretti," I said to the lead agent. "She is wanted for international wire fraud, attempted murder of three infants, and domestic terrorism. Take her to a black site in Colorado. Make sure she never sees the sun again. And if she ever utters the names Theo, Miles, or Nora... you call me."
The agent nodded silently, hauling a screaming, cursing Julianna into the back of the transport.
Marco walked up beside me, handing me a clean, dry wool coat.
"Is it over, boss?" Marco asked quietly.
I looked up into the dark Chicago sky, feeling the cold snowflakes melt against my skin.
May you like
"No, Marco," I said, thinking of the four-year-old girl sitting in my safehouse with her handmade doll. "It’s just beginning."
***
