PART 6: The LaSalle Street Reckoning
The boardroom on the forty-second floor of the LaSalle Industrial Tower was suffocatingly hot, the air thick with the scent of expensive cigars, imported scotch, and the distinct, metallic tension of an empire changing hands.
Vincent Mercer sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his fingers tapping against the gold-plated pen he had stolen from Dominic’s desk three weeks ago. Around the table sat the five West Side captains—old, scarred men who had spent thirty years controlling the docks, the unions, and the gambling rings of Illinois.
"The paperwork is complete," Vincent said, sliding five black leather folders across the polished wood. "Dominic has signed over the voting shares of the primary holding company to my account. He’s retiring to the estate in Spain. His mind is gone since the boy died. We all know he hasn't been the same since Evelyn."
The oldest captain, a silver-haired lion named Lorenzo, looked at the folder without opening it. "I want to hear it from Dominic’s mouth, Vincent. He’s the one who took the bullet for me in '98. I don't sign my docks over to a boy who spent the war in a Swiss banking school."
"Dominic isn't taking calls, Lorenzo," Vincent’s voice turned sharp, a subtle, dangerous edge creeping into his aristocratic tone. "And if you don't sign, the cartel shipments through your docks will stop by tomorrow morning. I’m the one who writes the checks now. Adjust your loyalty to the inflation rate."
The heavy double doors of the boardroom didn't open. They were blown off their hinges.
The explosive breaching charge shattered the glass partition walls into a million silver diamonds, the blast throwing two of Vincent’s East Coast enforcers across the room like broken dolls. Before the smoke could even clear, ten men in black military tactical gear poured through the breach, their suppressed rifles scanning the room with lethal, mechanical efficiency.
At the center of the smoke stood Dominic Mercer.
He wasn't wearing a suit. He wore a heavy, tactical plate carrier over a black combat shirt, a customized automatic shotgun held loosely in his right hand. Beside him walked Marcus, holding an electronic jammer that instantly turned every cell phone and security radio in the building into dead static.
Vincent scrambled back in his leather chair, his face turning a horrific, violet shade of purple as his gold pen fell from his shaking fingers. "Dominic! You... you’re supposed to be in Lake Forest... the guards—"
"Your guards are currently swimming in the Chicago River, Vincent," Dominic said, his voice a low, rumbling thunder that made the old captains instantly drop their hands to the table, away from their weapons. "Lorenzo. Good to see you."
Lorenzo let out a long, gravelly laugh, leaning back in his chair with a wide, tobacco-stained grin. "I told you, Vincent. The bloodline doesn't run thin."
"Dominic, listen to me," Vincent stammered, his hands raised in the air as he backed away toward the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out over the dark city. "It was the cartel... they threatened me! They said if we didn't give them the ports, they’d hit Evelyn... I tried to save her, Dom! I swear!"
"You paid Dr. Reddick forty-eight hours before Evelyn’s car bomb even arrived from Detroit," Dominic said, walking slowly down the length of the table, his heavy boots crushing the crystal glass shards beneath his feet. He reached into his pocket and threw a small, encrypted flash drive onto the mahogany wood. "Marcus found your offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. We have the full video confession from Reddick before he died of blood loss in the warehouse. We also have the ultra-violet scans of my son’s IV line."
Vincent’s eyes darted toward the door, but Marcus was already standing there, his rifle raised, his finger resting precisely on the trigger match.
"You killed my wife, Vincent," Dominic said, stopping three feet from his cousin, the barrel of the automatic shotgun rising until it rested gently against Vincent’s silk tie. "And you tried to starve my boy inside a plastic box while I was sleeping five feet away from him. You thought I was a monster because I used guns? I’m about to show you what a monster does when you touch his nest."
"Dominic, please!" Vincent wept, his knees hitting the glass window as he fell to the floor, clutching his cousin’s combat boots. "We’re blood! Your father... your father would never let you do this!"
"My father died in a cell because he trusted his brother," Dominic said, his face an absolute, frozen mirror of winter stone. "The Mercer family doesn't make that mistake twice."
Dominic didn't pull the trigger. He didn't need to waste the shell. He stepped back, turning his face toward Lorenzo and the old captains.
"He’s yours," Dominic said simply. "He brought the cartel into our city without a vote. Deal with him according to the old charter."
May you like
Lorenzo stood up, pulling a heavy, old-fashioned brass knuckle-duster from his coat pocket with a slow, beautiful smile. "With pleasure, Chairwoman. Get the plastic bags, boys. This is going to be a long night on LaSalle Street."
As Dominic walked out of the smoking ruin of the boardroom, the sounds of Vincent’s screams were completely swallowed by the heavy, industrial hum of the building's ventilation shafts. The king had returned to his throne, and the West Side was about to find out that the tax rate on betrayal had just gone up to one hundred percent.
