Chapter 5
1558 Words
The black iron gates creaked shut behind them with a heavy finality, locking out the world. The taxi pulled through the long driveway lined with crooked lamps and overgrown ivy creeping up the walls. The Verona Estate loomed ahead, still grand but aged—like a lion long past its prime, resting in the shadow of its former roar.
The compound hadn’t changed much.
Stone gargoyles still perched on the corners of the roof, their features weathered by years of wind and war. The big oak door remained, but now two armed guards stood watch beside it, flanking it like statues. Dogs barked somewhere in the back.
More security. Less warmth.
DJ stepped out of the car first, his polished shoes crunching on the gravel. He took a slow breath, letting the air of his past fill his lungs. The others followed close behind, each one alert, scanning the grounds.
Aron adjusted his jacket and nodded toward the door. “Place got tighter.”
“Means they’re scared,” Shaun muttered. “They used to leave that gate open during Sunday dinner.”
Lamar let out a low whistle. “Still smells like cigars and secrets.”
Dwight chuckled. “Smells like a goddamn crypt to me.”
DJ didn’t say anything. He just walked forward.
The front doors opened before he could knock.
And there he was.
Vinny Verona.
The Don.
Old as the city itself. His white hair was thin and slicked back, and his eyes were sunken but sharp—still burning with that Verona fire. He leaned heavily on a carved cane with a lion’s head, but when he saw DJ, his face cracked open into a wide grin lined with yellowed teeth.
“Dio mio...” Vinny wheezed, his voice gravel and smoke. “Look at you.”
DJ stepped forward, a small respectful nod. “Don Verona.”
Vinny opened his arms as wide as he could. “Come here, boy. Let me look at ya.”
DJ let the man pull him in. The old man’s grip was weak but sincere, his bony hand patting DJ’s back twice.
“You were just a punk kid with a busted lip and blood on your sneakers when I found you,” Vinny chuckled. “Now look at you. A suit. A beard. A killer’s eyes.” He tapped DJ’s cheek lightly. “You grew up right.”
DJ gave a small smile. “You gave me the shot.”
Vinny motioned for them all to follow. “Come. We’ll sit. We’ll drink. You’ll tell me about the city, eh?”
They followed him down a long corridor, past faded paintings and dark oak furniture that hadn’t been polished in years. The once-glamorous mansion had dulled with time—but Vinny’s pride still echoed through every step.
They gathered in a lounge with leather chairs, walls lined with books and old framed photos of a younger Vinny standing beside titans of the underworld. Vinny sank into his chair, motioning for DJ to sit across from him while the others stood behind.
“I won’t lie to you,” Vinny said, lifting a trembling hand. “Things ain’t the same. This brat from Michigan—Wyatt Cane—he’s got the fire of his old man but none of the brains. He’s loud. He’s cocky. And he doesn’t know the rules. Thinks he can buy the city like a whorehouse.”
Shaun scoffed. “What’s his play?”
Vinny’s lip curled. “Real estate, dirty cops, and scare tactics. Mark Cane—the old bull—sent his pup in to piss all over our turf while he watches from the comfort of his lakeside castle.”
Vinny leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
“But this Wyatt… he don’t fear nothing. Not even death. He wants to make Chicago his proving ground. I’ve already lost two crews trying to push him back.”
“Then he hasn’t met us yet,” DJ said calmly, toothpick between his lips.
Vinny’s eyes lit up.
“That’s why I asked for you. You’re not just muscle. You’re smart. Calculated. You bring fear without screaming.” He leaned back and pointed his cane. “You made New York kneel. Now make this brat crawl.”
DJ nodded once. “Me and my boys will take care of it.”
Vinny smiled wider, exhaling like he just took a long drag from a favorite cigar.
“The Black Devil has returned home.”
A hush fell in the room as that name echoed off the stone walls.
No one spoke. No one had to.
They all knew what that meant.
It wasn’t just a homecoming.
It was a warning.
DJ and his crew left the compound just as the late afternoon sun began to cast long shadows across the cracked sidewalks of the old neighborhood. The city was familiar—its bones unchanged—but there was a darkness lingering in the air now, heavier than he remembered.
They walked the streets like silent phantoms, the scent of diesel and smoke clinging to the breeze. DJ scanned everything—the faces, the shops, the trash in the gutters.
It wasn’t just the buildings that had changed.
It was the people.
They were quieter now. Hunched. Tired. Their eyes flitted too quickly, always scanning, always watching. Fear stained their faces like soot. Men looked over their shoulders before lighting cigarettes. Women hurried with their heads down, clutching their bags tight. Even the kids—once loud and wild in the alleys—were nowhere to be found.
DJ’s jaw flexed, a tic of anger running up his neck.
The Michigan Mafia had infected this place like rot in the walls.
“This ain’t the city you left,” Aron muttered beside him, hands in his coat pockets, scanning just as sharply.
“No s**t,” Lamar added, voice low. “It’s like a ghost town with better lighting.”
“I don’t like it,” Dwight said. “Too damn quiet.”
“Means someone else is doing the talking,” Shaun said, eyes narrowed.
They wandered until the orange glow of the sun began to bleed into the horizon. That's when they heard it—music. Jazz. Lively, alive, and far too loud for the dead energy of the streets.
They followed it until they turned the corner onto Lakeview Avenue, where a long line of well-dressed patrons snaked outside a newly polished building wrapped in lights and velvet ropes.
A nightclub.
Brand new. Flashy. Expensive.
And crawling with the wrong kind of energy.
DJ slowed as they crossed the street, his eyes narrowing on the glowing sign above the door—Club Opal. The name shimmered like a lure, but he knew better.
“Michigan joint?” Aron asked, already guessing.
Shaun nodded. “Guaranteed. They’ve been buying up old speakeasies and flipping them into these ‘clean’ fronts. Wyatt Cane’s calling card.”
They stopped across the street, leaning casually near a lamppost, but every one of them had their eyes locked on the club.
That’s when the Packard pulled up.
Black. Sleek. Freshly waxed. With custom chrome rims that gleamed like knives in the dying light.
DJ shifted the toothpick in his mouth, eyes locked on the car as the chauffeur rounded the front and opened the rear door.
Out stepped a man—tall, smug, clean-cut. His dark hair was combed back sharp, his jaw lined, his suit crisp in shades of silver and navy with a white rose pinned to the lapel. He smiled like someone who’d never been hit in the mouth for running it.
Wyatt Cane.
“That's him,” Lamar said under his breath.
“Looks like a prick,” Dwight added.
Shaun laughed. “That’s because he is.”
DJ didn’t move. He just watched. A slow flicker of annoyance burned behind his eyes.
Then it happened.
Wyatt turned back to the car.
And reached in.
A hand appeared first. Then a slender arm. And then—her.
She stepped out slowly, elegant but reluctant. Her golden hair was pinned into soft curls that framed her porcelain face, and the soft fabric of her pale blue dress shimmered in the dusk light like starlight on a lake. Her delicate hands adjusted the skirt as she straightened, trying to breathe, trying to look composed.
His breath caught.
Even Aron flinched. “Damn…”
“Who is that?” Shaun asked.
Lamar let out a low whistle. “She looks like an angel.”
“Yeah,” DJ muttered under his breath. “She is.”
She hadn’t seen him. But he saw everything.
The hesitation in her step. The way her blue eyes scanned the crowd like she was hoping someone—anyone—might pull her away. Her smile was polite. Forced. The kind of smile you wear when the alternative might get you hurt.
Wyatt extended his arm to her.
She hesitated again… then took it.
Because she always had a hard time saying no. Even when the right answer was to run.
DJ’s hand curled into a fist at his side.
And for the first time in a long time…
he felt something.
Not rage. Not pride.
But the old kind of ache. The kind that never really went away.
- Writer
