Chapter 3 - The Trap at the Obsidian Lounge
The Obsidian Lounge was a notorious underground club located beneath a historic theater in downtown Chicago. It was neutral ground, a place where the city's five ruling families met to settle disputes without bloodshed. But tonight, the atmosphere was different. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and nervous sweat.
Victor Vale sat at the center of a velvet semi-circular booth, his daughter Serena beside him. Serena wore a dark velvet dress, a heavy lace veil covering her face to hide the bruising on her wrist where Adrian had ripped the ring away. Around them sat the heads of the Colombo, Genovese, and Lucchese factions.
"The boy has lost his mind," Victor declared, slamming his fist on the low table. "Adrian Hawthorne turned his back on a multi-billion-dollar maritime merger for a maid! He insulted my bloodline. He broke the code of the Commission. If we don't remove him now, the feds will see his weakness and destroy us all."
Don Colombo, an old man with thick glasses and a cane, frowned. "Adrian’s father was a lion, Victor. But the boy controls the ports and the police chief. Removing him won't be easy. It will turn Chicago into a slaughterhouse."
"It’s already a slaughterhouse," a cold, smooth voice echoed from the entrance of the lounge.
The heavy iron doors of the club slid open. Adrian Hawthorne walked into the room alone. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo tonight; he wore a long black wool overcoat, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He didn't have a single guard with him, but the way he walked made every armed man in the room instinctively reach for their holsters.
"Adrian," Serena spat, her voice trembling beneath her veil. "You dare come here? You're outnumbered."
"Am I?" Adrian asked, stopping in the center of the lounge, beneath the low crimson lights. He pulled his hands from his pockets and tossed a small black digital drive onto the table in front of Victor.
"What is this?" Victor sneered.
"That is the financial ledger of Vale Shipping for the last five years," Adrian said calmly. "The ones you didn't show the Commission. The ones that prove you've been skimming ten percent off the Colombo heroin shipments through the San Diego docks. You didn't want this wedding because of an alliance, Victor. You wanted it because my family’s legal accounts would have permanently buried your embezzling."
The room went dead silent. Don Colombo’s eyes turned toward Victor, his ancient face twisting into a mask of pure fury. "Victor... is this true?"
"He's lying!" Serena screamed, standing up. "He's trying to divide us! Kill him! Kill him now!"
Two of Victor’s personal bodyguards drew their suppressed pistols, aiming directly at Adrian’s chest.
Before they could pull the triggers, the red neon lights of the Obsidian Lounge flashed white, and the club’s overhead speaker system crackled to life. A voice echoed through the room—the voice of the Chicago Police Commissioner.
"This is a federal raid. All exits are sealed. Drop your weapons immediately."
The heavy metal grates of the lounge were blown off their hinges by flashbangs. Dozens of heavily armed SWAT officers poured into the room, their red laser sights painting the chests of every mob boss in the booth.
But the lasers didn't touch Adrian.
May you like
Adrian smiled, a cold, empty expression. He turned back toward the exit as Marcus stepped out from behind the SWAT vanguard, holding a federal immunity waiver signed by a federal judge an hour prior.
"You played a sloppy game, Victor," Adrian said over his shoulder as the police tackled Victor and Serena to the floor. "You thought I was a mob boss who cared about a throne. I am an industrialist. I own the banks, I own the city, and I own the law. Enjoy the frozen cells. I hear they're negative eleven tonight."
