The first gunshot cracked through the cold Chicago night like thunder.
Leo Valentino ducked instinctively, the bullet whistling past his ear before slamming into the wooden crate behind him. Whiskey bottles shattered inside with a violent crash, the sharp scent of alcohol exploding into the freezing air.
“Ambush!” someone shouted.
Too late.
The narrow dirt road cutting through the outskirts of Chicago had turned into a killing ground in seconds. Headlights from three black cars burst through the darkness, engines roaring like beasts. Men jumped out, coats flapping, guns already raised.
Rival gang.
Leo didn’t waste time thinking.
“Cover the truck!” he barked.
The younger men beside him—new recruits from the Cohen Family—looked terrified. One of them, barely eighteen, fumbled with his pistol as another bullet tore through the side of the delivery truck.
Leo grabbed the kid by the collar and shoved him behind a crate.
“Keep your head down unless you want it blown off.”
Gunfire erupted again.
Leo moved like a shadow between crates stacked with illegal whiskey. His coat whipped behind him as he fired two clean shots.
Bang. Bang.
One of the attackers collapsed instantly.
The second ducked behind a car door, shouting curses in Italian.
Figures.
Most of the gangs running Chicago’s bootlegging business were Italian, Irish, or Jewish. And tonight, one of them clearly wanted the Cohen Family’s shipment badly enough to start a war.
Another bullet ricocheted off the truck.
“Leo!” one of the men yelled. “They’re flanking us!”
Leo swore under his breath.
Of course they were.
He glanced at the truck. Twenty wooden crates. Imported whiskey from Canada. Marcus Cohen’s most prized shipment this month.
If it got stolen—
Leo didn’t even want to think about it.
Marcus didn’t forgive mistakes.
He punished them.
Permanently.
Leo vaulted over a crate, landing behind the truck’s rear wheel. A man rushed him from the left, knife flashing under the moonlight.
Leo moved faster.
He caught the attacker’s wrist, twisted hard—
Crack.
The knife clattered to the ground as the man screamed.
Leo punched him once in the throat. The sound cut off instantly.
Another gunshot rang out.
Leo fired back without hesitation.
The firefight lasted only minutes, but it felt like an hour.
Then suddenly—
Silence.
One of the enemy cars peeled away first. Then another.
Their surviving men dragged the wounded into the vehicles before speeding off down the road, tires spraying gravel.
The ambush was over.
Leo stayed still for several seconds, gun raised, breathing slow and steady.
Then he straightened.
“Anyone dead?”
A few groans answered him.
“Just wounded,” someone said shakily.
Lucky.
Very lucky.
Leo holstered his gun and walked to the back of the truck.
“Check the crates.”
The men obeyed quickly.
Wood creaked as they lifted lids and counted.
Then one of them froze.
“Leo…”
Leo already knew that tone.
Slowly, he turned.
“What?”
The kid looked pale.
“There were twenty crates when we left the warehouse.”
Leo’s stomach tightened.
“How many now?”
The kid swallowed.
“Nineteen.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
The night air suddenly felt colder.
Leo stared at the empty space in the truck.
One crate was missing.
Just one.
But that was enough.
Because Marcus Cohen didn’t care about numbers.
He cared about loyalty.
And losing even a single crate of his private whiskey shipment meant only one thing in his mind—
Someone had failed him.
Leo closed his eyes briefly.
Shit.
Tony Capo let out a low whistle behind him.
“Well,” Tony said casually, leaning against the truck like they weren’t standing in the middle of a battlefield. “Looks like someone’s head is gonna roll tonight.”
Leo didn’t respond.
Tony had been his friend since childhood.
They’d grown up together in the same immigrant neighborhood—two poor Italian kids trying to survive Chicago’s streets.
But lately, Tony talked too much.
And watched too closely.
Tony stepped beside him, glancing at the missing crate.
“Marcus isn’t gonna like this.”
“No,” Leo said quietly.
“He might shoot you on the spot.”
Tony grinned.
“Honestly? I’d pay to see that.”
Leo finally looked at him.
“Very funny.”
Tony shrugged.
“Hey, I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”
Leo turned back to the truck.
“We still deliver the shipment.”
One of the men blinked.
“Even with the missing crate?”
“Yes.”
“And Marcus?”
Leo’s voice turned cold.
“I’ll deal with Marcus.”
—
Marcus Cohen’s mansion sat on a quiet hill overlooking the city.
It looked less like a home and more like a fortress.
Iron gates.
Stone walls.
Armed guards posted along the driveway.
The place smelled faintly of cigar smoke and expensive whiskey even from outside.
Leo stepped out of the truck and rolled his shoulders.
He could still feel the weight of the gunfight in his muscles.
Tony walked beside him, hands in his pockets.
“You nervous?” Tony asked.
Leo didn’t answer.
They both knew the truth.
Anyone with a brain would be nervous.
Marcus Cohen ruled most of Chicago’s bootlegging trade.
He was ruthless.
And paranoid.
Men who disappointed him rarely lived long enough to make the same mistake twice.
The guards opened the mansion doors without a word.
Inside, warm golden light spilled across polished marble floors.
Expensive paintings covered the walls.
Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead.
Luxury everywhere.
All bought with illegal whiskey.
Marcus stood near the grand staircase, swirling a glass of bourbon in his hand.
He didn’t look at Leo immediately.
Which was worse.
When Marcus finally lifted his eyes, the room went silent.
“Shipment arrived late,” he said calmly.
Leo stepped forward.
“We were attacked on the road.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“Rival gang.”
Marcus sipped his drink.
“And?”
Leo forced the words out.
“We fought them off.”