At Eight O’Clock the Mafia Boss Ordered His Curvy Housekeeper to Cancel Her Date,

At 11:45 AM, three sleek black armored Sedans pulled into the desolate, gravel-lined yard of Warehouse 14 along the South Branch of the Chicago River.

The air smelled of rust, river water, and diesel fuel.

Adrian Kane stepped out of the middle vehicle, wearing an immaculate three-piece charcoal suit, a long black overcoat draped over his broad shoulders. Beside him walked Lev and three heavily armed security team members carrying suppressed automatic rifles.

Inside the sprawling, dim warehouse, sitting at a folding table near a row of shipping containers, was Salvatore Marcone.

Marcone was sixty years old, grey-haired, stocky, and dressed in an ill-fitting pinstripe suit. Sitting tied to a wooden chair beside him was Daniel Moretti, his face bruised and bloody from a severe beating. Four heavy-set enforcers with leather jackets stood behind Marcone, their hands resting inside their coats.

"Adrian," Marcone said, his gravelly voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls as Adrian approached. "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough, Salvatore," Adrian said, stopping ten feet from the table, his hands resting casually inside his overcoat pockets. "You're out of your jurisdiction."

"I'm pursuing stolen assets," Marcone said, gesturing toward the battered Daniel Moretti. "This dog stole three million from my family. He fled to your city. And last night, your men interfered with my collection process."

"Your 'asset' targeted my household," Adrian replied smoothly, his eyes flashing like polished steel. "He targeted my house manager. That makes him my trash to dispose of, not yours."

Marcone leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. "I heard about your house manager, Adrian. A curvy little thing, isn't she? Word on the street is you personally came down to the lobby to protect her. That doesn't sound like business, Kane. That sounds like you've gone soft."

The atmosphere inside the warehouse plunged below freezing.

Lev shifted his stance slightly, his fingers tightening on the grip of his sidearm.

Adrian didn't flinch. He walked forward slowly, stepping right up to the edge of the table, leaning down until he was looking directly into Marcone's aged, yellowing eyes.

"Let me clarify something for you, Salvatore," Adrian whispered, his voice deadly quiet. "If you ever speak about her again... if you even think her name... I won't just kill you. I will dismantle every business, every family member, and every brick of your operation in Detroit until nothing remains of your legacy except a tax audit."

Marcone’s enforcers instinctively reached inside their jackets.

Instantly, the red laser sights of twelve hidden snipers positioned high up in the warehouse rafters painted the chests and foreheads of Marcone and his four men.

Marcone went completely rigid. He slowly looked up at the rafters, then back at Adrian's stone-cold face.

"You brought snipers to a sit-down?" Marcone gasped softly.

"I brought a firing squad to a pest control appointment," Adrian corrected. He tapped two fingers on the table. "You have five minutes to take Daniel Moretti, get into your cars, and drive back to Michigan. If any of your vehicles are spotted in Illinois after two o'clock, my snipers won't ask for permission before pulling the triggers."