Chapter 8 - The Tribunal at 22nd Street
The abandoned meat-packing warehouse down on 22nd Street was the same grim, industrial fortress where, only a few weeks earlier, secrets had been buried and blood had been spilled. Tonight, it served as the neutral ground for the high council of the Chicago syndicate.
Outside, a freezing drizzle slicked the asphalt as our black SUV pulled up to the rusted loading bays. Inside, the cavernous main room was illuminated only by harsh overhead halogen work lights casting long, distorted shadows across rows of empty stainless-steel hooks.
Two dozen syndicate capos, regional enforcers, and financial lieutenants stood in a semi-circle around a raised concrete platform.
When Luca Moretti stepped out of the vehicle, flanked by Dominic and four armed security operatives in tailored suits, the murmuring in the room instantly died.
I sat quietly in the front passenger seat of the SUV, peering through the tinted bulletproof glass. Luca had strictly ordered me to stay in the vehicle, but my heart was hammering so violently against my ribs I felt like I was right there on the concrete floor with them.
Luca walked into the center of the warehouse with the slow, terrifying grace of an apex predator entering his own hunting ground. He didn't rush. He didn't reach for his gun. He simply stood tall, his dark overcoat trailing slightly behind him in the damp breeze.
Marco Rossi stepped forward from the front of the crowd, wearing a smug, self-satisfied grin.
"Well, look who decided to show up," Marco announced loudly, his voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls. "We were beginning to think the great Luca Moretti had lost his stomach for ruling the streets after getting played by a gold-digging socialite and her dead father's letters!"
A ripple of nervous laughter spread through several of the capos.
Luca didn't smile. He stared at Marco with eyes as cold and dead as winter ice.
"You called an emergency tribunal, Marco," Luca said, his voice carrying effortlessly across the cavernous room. "You questioned my authority. You questioned my stewardship of the family name."
"Damn right we did!" Marco shouted, stepping closer, emboldened by the silence of the other capos. "You're cutting loose profitable shipping lanes, handing multi-million-dollar shares to civilian nobodies, and letting your personal vendettas tear apart the syndicate's infrastructure! You're soft, Luca! Just like your old man at the end of his life!"
That was the line.
Before Marco could blink, Luca moved with terrifying, blinding speed.
He lunged forward across the concrete, grabbing Marco by the lapels of his pin-striped suit and slamming him violently against a steel support beam with a deafening clang.
Marco choked out a gasp of air, his feet dangling six inches off the ground as Luca's iron grip locked around his throat.
"You can question my business," Luca whispered, his voice dropping into a lethal, terrifying register that made every man in the room step back in horror. "You can question my shipping lanes. But you never, ever speak my father's name with disrespect in this house again."
"L-Luca... I can't... breath..." Marco choked, clawing frantically at Luca's wrists.
"You wanted a vote of no confidence, Marco?" Luca shouted, his voice echoing off the rafters. "Here is my vote!"
He released his grip, letting Marco crash hard onto the concrete floor, coughing, wheezing, and clutching his bruised throat.
Luca turned around, sweeping his piercing blue gaze across the silent, paralyzed crowd of syndicate capos.
"Does anyone else have an issue with how the Moretti family pays its debts?" Luca demanded.
Not a single man moved. Not a single man spoke.
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From inside the tinted SUV, watching through the rain-streaked glass, I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. The king had defended his throne.
And as Luca turned his head slowly toward the vehicle, his dark eyes locking directly onto mine through the glass, I knew that nothing in my life—or his—would ever be the same again.
