Chapter 9 - Uprooting the Syndicate
By 2:00 p.m., the rain had stopped over Chicago.
The Cross Estate was once again silent. Vance and her Ghost Cadre had completely cleared the grounds, disposing of the eighteen mercenaries and securing the perimeter.
In the subterranean holding cell beneath the garage, Frank Sterling sat bound to an iron chair, heavy steel cuffs locking his wrists behind his back. His face was bruised, his jaw swollen, and his broad leather wrist strap had been cut away, revealing the thick, ugly olive-green viper tattoo wrapped twice around his arm.
Damian stood outside the cell, looking through the heavy iron bars, flanked by Vance.
“What about the rest of the Moretti network?” Vance asked, reviewing a tactical tablet. “Lorenzo Moretti is dead, but his brother Marco is still holding their main compound on the North Side with thirty armed soldiers.”
Damian pulled Frank’s encrypted satellite phone from his pocket.
“Marco Moretti doesn't know Lorenzo is dead yet,” Damian said smoothly. “He’s waiting for Frank to confirm that Ellie has been secured.”
Damian pressed a button on the satellite phone and sent a short, pre-written text message to Marco Moretti:
“Package secured. Damian Cross is dead. Bring the full executive council to the estate at 4:00 p.m. to sign the territorial transfer.”
Vance smirked. “Marco is greedy. He won't send an advance scout. He’ll bring his entire leadership team in a victory parade.”
“And when they pull into the driveway,” Damian said coldly, “my heavy units will lock the iron gates behind them.”
At 4:00 p.m., a convoy of five luxury black sedans pulled up the winding driveway of the Cross Estate.
Marco Moretti—a fat, arrogant man wearing a mink coat—sat in the back of the lead car, sipping champagne with three of his top lieutenants.
“I told Lorenzo that Frank Sterling would deliver,” Marco chuckled, wiping his mouth with a silk handkerchief. “Damian Cross thought he was untouchable. Now we take his house, his money, and his city.”
The five sedans pulled up to the front marble fountain, their engines idling.
Marco stepped out of the vehicle, holding a heavy gold-plated cigar case, looking up at the grand architecture of the mansion.
“Frank!” Marco called out loudly, his voice echoing across the courtyard. “Where is the kid? Bring out the champagne!”
The front doors of the mansion did not open.
Instead, the massive iron gates at the end of the long driveway slammed shut with a heavy, automated clang. Steel security grilles dropped over every window on the ground floor.
Marco froze, his cigar dropping from his hand onto the gravel. “What the—”
From the high balconies overlooking the fountain, twenty heavily armed operators from Damian’s reserve tactical units stepped into view, their automatic weapons trained directly on the five sedans.
Damian Cross walked out onto the second-floor balcony, wearing a clean, dark suit, resting his hands casually on the stone railing.
Marco Moretti’s jaw dropped. His face turned as white as a sheet.
“Cross...” Marco gasped, taking two terrified steps backward against his car door. “No... Frank said you were dead!”
“Frank lied,” Damian said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet courtyard. “Just like he lied to my father. Just like he lied to you.”
Marco looked around frantically, realizing his entire executive council was trapped in an open courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by heavy firepower.
“Wait! Damian!” Marco screamed, raising his hands frantically in the air. “We can make a deal! Millions! I’ll give you all of Lorenzo’s offshore accounts! Just let us walk away!”
Damian looked down at Marco Moretti with cold, absolute disdain.
“You threatened a three-year-old child in my house, Marco,” Damian said softly. “There are no deals.”
Damian raised his right hand and dropped it sharply.
The crossfire lasted less than twenty seconds.
When the smoke cleared, the Moretti crime family—a syndicate that had plagued Chicago for three decades—ceased to exist.
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Damian turned and walked back inside his home, pulling a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket to wipe a fleck of dust from his sleeve.
The war was over. Chicago belonged to Damian Cross.
