Chapter 5
The Grand Hotel’s subterranean banquet room was a fortress of mahogany paneling, velvet drapes, and bulletproof glass.
By 11:55 AM, the leaders of the other three major syndicates in Chicago—the O’Malleys from the West Side, the Chen Triad from the Chinatown docks, and the Rossi family from the North—sat around the massive circular oak table. Surrounding the perimeter were thirty heavily armed enforcers, their eyes darting nervously toward the heavy double doors.
Sitting at the far end of the table was Victor Vandermark.
He was a man in his late fifties, with silver hair, a ruthless, aristocratic face, and a tailored Italian suit that hid a soul blacker than pitch. He sat with his hands folded over a silver-headed cane, his face twisted in a sneer of pure, arrogant confidence.
At exactly 12:00 PM, the double doors flew open.
I walked into the room alone, wearing a double-breasted black suit, my dark coat draped over my shoulders. Behind me walked Gideon, carrying a sleek metal briefcase.
"Moretti," Victor Vandermark barked, his voice echoing off the high wood-paneled ceiling. "You have five minutes to explain why my daughter is missing, why my security detail was attacked at your estate, and why you’ve called this ridiculous emergency council!"
I didn't answer him. I took my seat at the head of the circular table, resting my hands flat on the polished oak.
"Victor," I said calmly, my voice possessing a chilling, quiet authority that instantly silenced the murmurs among the other bosses. "Your daughter is currently residing in a ten-by-ten concrete cell under my South Side warehouse."
Victor slammed his silver cane against the floor, half-rising from his chair. "You insolent bastard! I’ll have fifty men tear your estate to ground by nightfall!"
"Sit down, Victor," Sean O’Malley, the gray-haired boss of the West Side, ordered sternly. "Dominic called the Blood Debt. He has the floor. Speak, Moretti."
I gestured to Gideon.
Gideon stepped forward, opened the metal briefcase, and pulled out fifty freshly printed copies of Ewan’s journal, along with sworn affidavits from the forensic pathologists who had examined my mother’s medical records that morning.
Gideon distributed the files to every boss at the table.
"Six years ago," I began, my eyes locking onto Victor Vandermark’s widening gaze, "my brother Ewan died. You all were told it was a docking accident at Pier 44. The truth is that Victor Vandermark and his daughter Celeste orchestrated Ewan's murder because he discovered they were skimming off our joint shipping routes and smuggling unauthorized contraband."
A sharp murmur went around the table. Skimming from joint council routes was an unpardonable sin under the syndicate charter.
"Furthermore," I continued, pointing a finger at the medical reports, "for sixteen months, Celeste Vandermark systematically administered micro-doses of paralytic toxins to my mother, Eleanor Moretti, to prevent her from revealing Ewan’s hidden ledgers. And two nights ago, Celeste attempted to murder my mother's nurse to cover up her crimes."
Victor’s face went pale, but he forced a cruel laugh. "Fabrications! Forged documents! My daughter is innocent! You’re inventing fairy tales because you want an excuse to seize my northern shipping terminals!"
"The journal is written in Ewan Moretti's verified handwriting," Boss Chen observed coldly, turning a page of his dossier. "The bank account numbers listed here match active accounts in Zurich registered to Vandermark Logistics. I verified them ten minutes ago with my contacts in Switzerland."
Victor froze. His arrogant facade cracked, revealing the desperate, cornered rat beneath.
"The charter is clear," I said, standing up from my chair and looking around the table at the three undisputed leaders of Chicago's underground. "When a family commits treason against the council and attempts the total assassination of a founding bloodline, the punishment is sanction."
Sean O'Malley stood up, looking down at Victor with disgust. "The O'Malleys recognize the Blood Debt. The Vandermark seat on this council is revoked."
Boss Chen stood up next. "The Chen family recognizes the Blood Debt. All Vandermark assets are forfeit to the Moretti family."
Boss Rossi stood up last. "Sanction granted."
Victor Vandermark stumbled back from his chair, his hands shaking violently as his own bodyguards—realizing that their boss was now a dead man walking under syndicate law—slowly stepped away from him, lowering their weapons.
"You can't do this!" Victor whimpered, looking around the room at the men who had been his allies an hour ago. "Dominic... please! We can make a deal! I’ll give you the northern docks! I’ll give you everything!"
I walked around the table, stopping inches from the trembling old man.
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"You took my brother's life, Victor," I said softly, pulling a sleek black pistol from my jacket holster. "You tried to take my mother's. You don't have anything left to trade."
BANG.
