Chapter 3 - The Gathering of Vultures
The warehouse on 14th Street sat near the polluted edge of the Chicago River, a decaying brick cavern left over from the city’s industrial past. Rain had begun to fall, turning the fresh snow into a grey, toxic slush that splashed against the tires of my car.
I arrived in a single SUV, leaving my usual convoy behind.
Inside, six high-intensity halogen lamps hung from the steel rafters, casting harsh, yellow light over a long folding table.
Sitting on one side was Frankie Moretti, the head of the Moretti syndicate—a bloated man of sixty with greasy gray hair and eyes like a dead fish. Beside him sat four armed guards, their coats open, their posture arrogant.
Standing near the center of the room, leaning against a rusted iron pillar with a glass of bourbon in his hand, was Sandro Vieri.
As I walked into the light, the sound of my dress shoes echoing against the wet concrete, Sandro smiled. It was the smooth, practiced smile he had used for twelve years while managing my affairs.
"Dario," Sandro said, stepping forward. "You’re late. Frankie was beginning to think you’d lost your appetite for the West Side logistics."
I didn't look at Frankie. I kept my eyes on Sandro.
"I had a distraction at home," I said quietly.
Sandro took a slow sip of his bourbon. "Ah, yes. The little girl from the alley. How is the child? Did the doctor manage to save the infant?"
"They’ll live," I said.
Frankie Moretti slammed his hand onto the table, the sound exploding like a gunshot in the cavernous space. "I don't give a damn about stray kids, Fera! We’re here to sign the boundary agreement. You took three blocks of my distribution network in Pilsen after your sister died, using her murder as an excuse to go to war. It’s time you gave them back."
I slowly walked up to the table, resting my hands on the cold metal surface. I looked Frankie straight in the eye.
"My sister’s murder," I repeated softly. "Tell me, Frankie... how much did Sandro pay you to let your boys take the credit for her death?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
Frankie’s dead-fish eyes widened slightly. His hand twitched near his belt.
Behind me, I heard the faint click of a safety being disengaged.
I didn't turn around. I knew Sandro’s gun was pointed directly at the back of my head.
"You were always too smart for your own good, Dario," Sandro said, his voice dropping the polite, subservient tone he had worn for a decade. It was cold now, flat and ruthless. "Just like your father. You thought leadership was about honor and bloodlines. You thought you could run Chicago while weeping over a dead sister."
"She wasn't dead, was she?" I said, keeping my voice utterly level, my hands remaining flat on the table. "You found out she was pregnant three years ago. You realized that if she bore your child, she would never marry the man you needed her to marry to consolidate the family holdings. So you tried to lock her away."
"She was mine!" Sandro hissed, his composure finally breaking, his voice rising in an ugly, jagged rasp. "Mara belonged to me! But she was soft. She found out about my arrangements with Moretti. She stole the ledger from my private safe and ran. I staged the crash in Kenosha to keep you from searching for her while I hunted her down."
"And for three years," I said, "she hid in this city right under your nose, protecting her children."
"She died three days ago in an abandoned tenement on 8th Street," Sandro sneered. "Of pneumonia and starvation. I found her body six hours after her daughter ran off with the baby. I’ve been looking for that little bitch all night."
A cold, dark tide rose within me, consuming every lingering trace of hesitation.
Mara was gone. The sister I had loved, the girl who had sung Italian lullabies in the summer gardens of Sicily, had spent her final days dying of cold in a derelict room while this rat lived in my estate.
"You made one mistake, Sandro," I said softly.
May you like
"Oh?" Sandro chuckled, his gun steady against my spine. "And what’s that, Dario? You’re surrounded. Frankie’s men are in front of you, and I’m behind you. Your empire ends tonight."
"Your mistake," I said, flipping my hand over and pressing a small red button on the remote unit hidden in my palm, "was assuming I came here to negotiate."
