Chapter 3 - The Gathering Storm
The drive back to my estate in the Gold Coast was executed in total silence.
I didn't leave Silas in that filthy basement. I loaded him into the back seat of my armored SUV alongside Beatrice, wrapping my own heavy fur coat around my brother’s shriveled shoulders. He sat quietly, staring out the tinted windows at the city lights of Chicago—a city he hadn't truly seen from the front seat of a car in twelve long years.
"Your estate is heavily guarded, Gabriel," Silas warned in his raspy voice as we approached the iron gates of the Vance Manor. "Lorenzo controls half the security team. Men like Victor and Marco—they don't report to you. They report to Lorenzo's payroll."
"I know," I replied coldly, checking the mirror. "That's why they won't see you coming."
I pulled into the subterranean garage beneath the mansion—a private sector accessible only by my personal biometric keycard. I led Silas and Beatrice up the private service elevator directly into my personal living quarters on the third floor, far away from the security cameras Lorenzo monitored.
I opened the door to my private master suite. It was warm, carpeted, and stocked with fresh clothes, hot food, and medical supplies.
"Stay here," I instructed Beatrice. "Lock the door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me."
"Gabriel," Silas called out, catching my sleeve as I turned to leave. His eyes were wide with concern. "Lorenzo is a snake. If he senses that you know, he won't hesitate to burn this entire house down with you inside it."
I looked down at my brother’s hand resting on my arm, feeling the strength of our bloodline surging back through my veins.
"Let him try," I said softly. "He took twelve years of your life, Silas. He made me live a lie. Tonight, the interest on that debt comes due."
I descended the grand marble staircase to the ground floor.
The estate was buzzing with nervous energy. It was past two o'clock in the morning, but the lights in the main mahogany dining hall were ablaze. Standing around the twenty-foot oak table were eight men—the inner council of the Vance Syndicate. These were the capos who controlled the docks, the real estate, the gambling dens, and the union bribes across Illinois.
And standing at the head of the table, sipping a tumbler of twenty-year-old scotch, was Lorenzo Vale.
When I entered the room, the hushed conversations immediately ceased. All eyes turned toward me.
Lorenzo set his glass down, a thin, patronizing smile curling his lips. He was fifty-five years old, impeccably groomed in a tailor-made Brioni suit, his grey hair slicked back with ruthless perfection.
"Gabriel," Lorenzo drawled, folding his hands across his chest. "You called an emergency council meeting at two in the morning. Care to enlighten us? The capos were sleeping. Frankie had to drive all the way from Cicero."
I walked slowly to the opposite end of the table, resting my hands on the high back of the master chair. I didn't sit down.
"I apologize for the late hour, gentlemen," I said, my voice echoing off the wood-paneled walls. "But a matter of critical historical importance has come to my attention. A matter concerning the late Silas Vance."
A subtle shift occurred in the room. Frankie from Cicero frowned. Two other capos shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Lorenzo’s smile didn't fade, but his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
"Silas?" Lorenzo scoffed lightly. "Gabriel, your brother has been dead for twelve years. We buried him. We avenged him. Why are you dragging up ghosts in the middle of the night?"
"Because," I replied, leaning forward slightly, "I spent the last hour speaking with the man who shot him."
A sharp collective gasp rippled through the room.
Lorenzo didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a short, mocking laugh. "The Morettis are all dead or in federal prison, Gabriel. You killed the last of them five years ago. Who could you possibly have spoken to?"
"Not a Moretti," I said, letting the silence stretch between us like a tightening piano wire. "I spoke to a coward who ordered the hit because he was afraid Silas would clean up our accounts and stop his illegal side-businesses."
Lorenzo’s hand moved half an inch toward his jacket.
"You've been overworked, Gabriel," Lorenzo said smoothly, though his voice had dropped an octave into dangerous territory. "The stress of the federal grand jury indictments is getting to you. You're hallucinating. Maybe you need to step down for a few weeks and let the council handle operations."
"Is that a motion, Lorenzo?" I asked quietly.
"It's a suggestion," Lorenzo barked, his demeanor instantly turning cold and tyrannical. He looked around the table at the capos. "Look at him! He’s chasing shadows! He’s talking about dead men! The Boss is losing his mind!"
Three of the capos—Victor, Marco, and slick Jimmy—instantly drew their sidearms, stepping behind Lorenzo to form a defensive wall. They had been bought long ago.
The remaining five capos looked terrified, caught between two apex predators.
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"You played a great game, Lorenzo," I said softly, reaching into my jacket. "Twelve years. You made me your enforcer. You made me believe I was honoring my brother's memory while you grew fat on the blood of this city."
"Shoot him!" Lorenzo screamed at Victor and Marco. "He’s rogue! Shoot him now!"
