Chapter 10 - the ambush on wacker
The violence was instantaneous. Heavy rain battered the reinforced glass of the Maybach as Roman’s body immediately shielded Clara, pressing her down toward the floorboards with overwhelming, immovable strength. "Stay down," he growled, the calmness in his voice far scarier than any shout. The sound of muffled tactical rounds cracked against the armored vehicle’s reinforced body panels, leaving spiderweb cracks on the exterior ballistic glass without piercing through.
Through the smoked windows, Clara saw Roman’s personal security team disembarking with military precision, engaging the masked assailants in a disciplined perimeter defense. Within forty seconds, Chicago police sirens wailed in the distance, echoing off the high-rise concrete walls. Realizing the armored car could not be breached before municipal authorities arrived, the attackers abandoned their disabled vehicles, retreating into the subway access tunnels beneath Wacker Drive like disciplined ghosts.
Roman reached into the concealed compartment beneath his seat, withdrawing a matte-black firearm, racking the slide with a fluid, terrifying motion. He scanned the perimeter through the vehicle's internal camera monitor, his jaw locked in cold fury. "Clear," the driver reported, his breathing heavy through the intercom. "Escort one is disabled, but no casualties on our side. Tactical team intercepted the breach."
Roman did not release his hold on Clara until the flashing red and blue lights illuminated the rain-drenched underpass. When he finally pulled her upright, his hands cupped her face, searching her eyes for any sign of injury. "Are you hurt? Look at me, Clara. Did anything hit you?"
"I’m fine, Roman. I’m completely unhurt," she whispered, her heart racing not from cowardice, but from the realization of how calculated the strike had been. This had not been an assassination attempt; it was a demonstration. They had known the Maybach was armor-rated. They had wanted to send a message on broad daylight.
May you like
On the floor of the vehicle, Clara noticed Roman’s personal phone vibrating. An unknown number flashed on the screen. Roman answered on speaker, holding the phone between them. A cultured, aristocratic voice echoed through the silent interior, laced with sickening familiarity.
"Welcome home, cousin," the voice whispered smoothly. "Consider that an invitation to dinner. Tomorrow night at the Drake Hotel. Come alone, or the foundation’s charity gala will become a memorial service."
