Chapter 6
The next two weeks were a blur of security briefings and threat assessments.
Whitmore's team moved in. Cameras everywhere. Guards at the gate. Guards at the door. A detail that followed us everywhere we went.
Claire hated it. I hated it. Maria accepted it with her usual stoicism.
"Your father dealt with this for years," she told me over breakfast one morning. "He always said it was better to be paranoid than dead."
But life went on. We couldn't let Rizzo win by hiding in our house forever.
I went to work. Claire went to the foundation. We went to the grocery store. We took Max for walks. We tried to be normal.
But I could feel it. A prickle on the back of my neck. The sense that we were being watched.
Anthony Rizzo made his first move on a Tuesday afternoon.
I was in a meeting at the office when my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
I know what your father did.
I'm going to take everything from you.
Starting with her.
Attached was a photo. Claire. Walking into the foundation building. Taken from across the street.
I was out of my chair and running before I finished reading.
I called Whitmore. Called the security detail with Claire. Called the police.
By the time I got to the foundation, the street was swarming with cops and security. Claire was safe inside, surrounded by guards, shaken but unhurt.
"They were watching the building," the lead guard told me. "Our guys spotted them. Two men in a black SUV. They took off when we moved in. We got the plate number."
The plates came back stolen. Of course.
That night, we sat in the living room with Whitmore and Maria. The security lights blazed outside. The guards patrolled the perimeter.
"This isn't going to stop," Whitmore said. "Rizzo is doing this on purpose. The texts. The photos. He wants you scared. He wants you looking over your shoulder. He wants to make a mistake."
"So what do we do?" Claire asked. Her voice was steady, but I could see the fear in her eyes.
"We go on the offensive," I said.
Everyone looked at me.
"My father spent ten years taking down Vincent Rizzo," I said. "Quietly. From the shadows. He never told anyone what he was doing. He never bragged. He just... did it."
I stood up and walked to the window.
"But I'm not my father," I said. "I fight in the light. I fight in public. And I don't spend ten years doing it. I do it in ten days."
I turned to Whitmore.
"Everything you have on the Rizzo organization. Every business. Every associate. Every dirty cop. Every crooked politician. I want it all. Lay it out. And then we burn it to the ground."
Whitmore smiled. It was that terrifying smile again.
"Your father would be so proud," he said.
We worked through the night.
The Rizzo organization was smaller than it had been in Vincent's day, but it was still dangerous. Loan sharking. Protection rackets. Drug running. A string of seemingly legitimate businesses—car washes, restaurants, construction companies—that were just fronts for laundering money.
Anthony Rizzo had been trying to rebuild his father's empire since he got out of prison. He was young. Ambitious. Ruthless. And stupid.
He had left a trail a mile wide.
Phase One started at nine the next morning.
I called a press conference. I stood in front of the Carter Industries building with the chief of police and the district attorney. I laid out everything. The threats. The photos. The history. The evidence of Rizzo's criminal activities.
"Anthony Rizzo has threatened me and my family," I said into the cameras. "He thinks he can scare me. He thinks he can intimidate me. But he doesn't know who he's dealing with. I don't run from bullies. I don't hide from threats. And I certainly don't negotiate with terrorists."
I held up the envelope with Jake's letter.
"Today, I am offering a five-million-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Anthony Rizzo and any member of his organization. And I am personally funding a task force—cops, federal agents, forensic accountants—whose sole job is to dismantle the Rizzo organization, brick by brick, dollar by dollar, until nothing remains but dust."
The press went wild.
By noon, the story was everywhere. By three, the FBI had raided three Rizzo front businesses. By six, seven of Rizzo's top lieutenants were in custody.
Anthony Rizzo responded that night. Another text. Another photo. This time of Maria entering her house.
You'll regret this, Carter.
Old people die so easily.
I showed the text to Maria.
She didn't flinch. She just adjusted her bun and picked up the phone.
"I'm calling my grandson," she said. "He's a Green Beret. Just got back from Afghanistan. He's been looking for an excuse to come visit."
By the next morning, Maria's grandson—six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, with a scar running down his left cheek—was standing on her porch with two of his Army buddies.
Rizzo's guys didn't come near her house again.
Phase Two was the financial siege.
My accountants—with Whitmore's help—traced every dollar of Rizzo's money. Every bank account. Every real estate holding. Every investment.
We froze what we could legally. And for what we couldn't? We outbid him. Outmaneuvered him. Outspent him.
Every contract he was negotiating? We offered more. Every property he was trying to buy? We snapped it up first. Every business partner he was courting? We showed them the evidence of his criminal activities and watched them run.
Within a week, Rizzo was broke. His businesses were seized. His accounts were frozen. His associates had all flipped or disappeared. He was running out of money. Out of friends. Out of options.
And he was getting desperate.
I knew he would make a mistake. Desperate men always do.
He made it on a rainy Tuesday night. Exactly ten days after I had received Jake's letter.
Claire and I were coming home from a fundraiser. We were in the armored SUV, three security vehicles front and back.
We were three blocks from the house when the attack came.
Two cars. Black SUVs. No plates. They came out of an alley, cutting off our lead vehicle.
Gunfire. Pop pop pop.
The armored SUV took the rounds like they were pebbles. Our driver didn't even flinch. He hit the gas, ramming one of the SUVs out of the way.
The security team behind us opened fire. Non-lethal rounds first, then live ammunition when the Rizzo guys kept shooting.
It was over in ninety seconds.
The police arrived. The ambulances. The press.
Two of Rizzo's men were dead. Three were wounded. Four were in custody.
And Anthony Rizzo? They pulled him from the driver's seat of one of the SUVs. Alive. Angry. Screaming threats as they cuffed him.
He saw me standing by the police cars.
"Carter!" he screamed. "This isn't over! You hear me? It's never over! My father's friends—they'll find you! They'll—"
An officer shoved him into the back of a squad car. The door slammed shut. His voice was muffled. Gone.
Claire was shaking in my arms. I held her tight. My own hands were trembling.
That had been too close. Way too close.
The police chief walked over. He was holding Rizzo's phone.
"He was recording everything," he said. "Planned to post it online. Wanted the whole world to watch him kill you."
He shook his head.
"You got lucky, Mr. Carter. Real lucky."
I looked at Claire. At Maria, who had arrived and was standing by the ambulance, talking to the officers. At Whitmore, directing the cleanup.
"Luck had nothing to do with it," I said.
May you like
I looked up at the dark sky. Somewhere up there, I like to think my dad was watching.
"Thanks, Pop," I whispered.
