Chapter 5 - Unraveling the Syndicate
By 3:00 AM, the estate was secure.
Dr. Vance—a disgraced former trauma surgeon who now served as the Romano family's personal physician—had arrived, administered intravenous antibiotics to Clara, and confirmed that her pneumonia, while severe, had been caught just in time. She was resting comfortably, her fever finally beginning to break.
Zoe had fallen asleep in the armchair beside her mother’s bed, her head resting on her knees, still clutching her teddy bear.
I sat in the mahogany study on the ground floor, the shattered server racks in the security room locked behind a steel grille. Marcus was tied securely to a reinforced chair in the underground wine cellar, awaiting a proper tribunal with the remaining capos.
The documents I recovered from Marcus’s computer revealed a much deeper cancer within the organization.
It wasn't just the Outfit in New York. There was a faction within my own Chicago council—led by old-guard loyalists who believed my peace treaties with the rival syndicates made us weak—that had been funneling intelligence to our enemies. Marcus was just the executioner; the architects were sitting on the executive board.
The intercom on my desk buzzed softly.
“Boss,” Victor’s voice came through. “You have a visitor at the side gate. It’s Salvatore.”
I frowned. Salvatore Rossi was the head of the North Side families—a shrewd, dangerous old-school boss who had been neutral throughout the recent wars.
“Send him in,” I ordered. “Bring him to the conservatory. I don't want to wake the house.”
Ten minutes later, Salvatore entered the glass-domed conservatory. The moonlit rain tapped a gentle rhythm against the glass panes above us, illuminating the rows of exotic orchids my mother had planted decades ago.
Salvatore was seventy years old, wearing a tailored charcoal overcoat, leaning heavily on an ivory-handled cane. He looked at me with shrewd, calculating eyes.
“Word travels fast in Chicago, Dante,” Salvatore rasped, taking a seat opposite my iron garden chair. “They say your estate was breached tonight. They say Marcus turned coat.”
“They heard correctly,” I replied evenly, pouring two cups of black espresso from a silver pot. I pushed one cup across the table toward him. “And I assume you didn't drive out in the middle of a torrential storm at three in the morning just to express your condolences.”
Salvatore took a slow sip of the espresso. “I came to warn you, son. The men behind Marcus aren't just disgruntled lieutenants. They’re the old guard. They believe your absence in New York made us look soft. They’re planning to call a council vote tomorrow morning at the slaughterhouse district warehouse to strip you of your title.”
I smiled—a cold, humorless expression that didn't reach my eyes.
“Let them call a vote,” I said softly. “They think I’m vulnerable because I came home unannounced, alone, and focused on my estate. They don't realize that walking into a house where a little girl was brave enough to shine my shoes and expose a traitor reminded me of something crucial.”
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Salvatore raised an eyebrow. “And what is that?”
“Power isn't about how many guns you hold, Salvatore,” I replied, standing up and looking out into the dark garden where the Japanese maple whispered in the wind. “It’s about who you’re willing to protect. And tomorrow morning, the old guard is going to find out what happens when you threaten the people under my roof.”
