MAFIA BOSS BETRAYED HIS PREGNANT WIFE ON CHRISTMAS EVE

While Roman was paralyzed by grief and remorse inside the empty penthouse, the underworld of Chicago was quick to interpret his uncharacteristic isolation as a fatal vulnerability.

In the criminal syndicates, a boss without a united household was a boss on borrowed time.

Three weeks after Celeste's disappearance, Dante Moretti—a rival faction leader who had been quietly waiting for an opportunity to challenge Vascari dominance—decided to make his move. Moretti didn't go after Roman directly; he knew frontal assaults were suicide. Instead, he targeted Roman's primary financial lifeline: the downtown import-export warehouses along the Chicago River.

It was midnight when Marco Bellini burst into the penthouse study, waking Roman from a restless, guilt-ridden sleep.

"Boss, we've got a major situation," Marco said, breathing heavily, holding a secured tablet. "Moretti's crews just hit Terminal Four. They torched two shipping containers filled with our high-end electronics inventory. Total loss is pushing four million."

Roman looked up from the rocking chair in the nursery where he had spent most of the night. His eyes were bloodshot, his face hard, and his expression instantly transformed from a broken husband back into the ruthless predator who ruled the city.

"Where is Moretti tonight?" Roman asked, his voice dead and icy.

"He's hosting a card game at his private social club on Taylor Street. Surrounded by his inner circle."

Roman stood up, smoothing the front of his black cashmere sweater. He walked over to the wall safe behind his desk, spun the heavy dial, and pulled out a matte-black Sig Sauer pistol, sliding it smoothly into his shoulder holster.

"Get the cars ready," Roman commanded. "We're going to pay Dante a holiday visit."

Within twenty minutes, a convoy of four sleek black SUVs pulled away from the penthouse garage, cutting through the freezing Chicago snow toward the West Side.

The social club on Taylor Street was fortified with heavy iron security doors and armed guards at every perimeter. But Roman’s men didn't bother knocking. They breached the side loading entrance with practiced, terrifying efficiency, neutralizing Moretti’s outside guards before anyone inside even realized the perimeter had been compromised.

Roman kicked open the heavy oak doors of the second-floor VIP card room.

Dante Moretti and five of his top lieutenants jumped up from the green felt poker table, reaching frantically for their weapons. But before their fingers could close around their grips, Marco and three Vascari enforcers had them covered with automatic submachine guns.

"Vascari," Dante sneered, trying to mask his sudden panic with a arrogant smirk. "You're a long way from your high-rise, Roman. Word on the street is your wife packed her bags and left you. Guess you're losing your touch at home, so you figured you'd come out and play heavy?"

Roman walked slowly across the room, his heavy leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor. He didn't say a word. He walked right up to Dante, grabbed him by the expensive silk lapels of his suit jacket, and headbutted him with brutal, shocking force.

Dante screamed, crashing backward over the poker table, sending chips and playing cards flying everywhere as blood gushed from his broken nose.

Before Dante could scramble to his feet, Roman planted his heel squarely on his chest, pressing down with crushing weight, and pulled his pistol, jamming the cold steel barrel directly under Dante’s chin.

"You burned my warehouse, Dante," Roman whispered, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a lethal fury that made even his own men step back. "You thought my family falling apart meant my empire was up for grabs."

"It was just business, Roman!" Dante choked out, his eyes wide with absolute terror as he stared into the dead, unblinking eyes of a man who had nothing left to lose. "Just a warning shot!"

"A warning shot," Roman repeated softly. He cocked the hammer of the pistol. "My wife is out there somewhere, pregnant and alone, because of men like you who think women and families are disposable pawns in our game. And you think you can burn my property?"

"Wait! Roman, wait!" Dante sobbed, raising his hands in surrender. "I can help you find her! I heard rumors! Word on the docks is that a private medical transport dropped off a heavily pregnant woman at a secluded maternity clinic in Lake Geneva last week! She's staying at a private estate on the water!"

Roman froze. The pistol barrel remained pressed against Dante's chin, but the absolute rage in his eyes flickered into fierce, desperate hope.

"Who told you that?" Roman demanded.

"One of my shipping captains! It's true, I swear to God!"

Roman stared down at him for three agonizing seconds. Then, without warning, he pistol-whipped Dante across the temple, knocking the rival boss unconscious onto the floor.

Roman stepped back, holstering his weapon, and looked at Marco.