Chapter 6 - The King Reclaims His Throne
Silas Marino stood up slowly, using the iron pillar for support until his legs stopped shaking.
The cold, lethal composure that had sustained him for thirty years returned to his face, though now it was tempered by something far deeper—a debt that could never be repaid with money or empire.
He walked over to where Graham Voss lay groaning on the floor.
Silas reached down, grabbed the lawyer by his expensive charcoal lapels, and dragged his limp body across the concrete floor toward the base of the stairs. He retrieved Marcus’s dropped firearm from the floor, checking the magazine with practiced, effortless speed.
He turned to look at Mara, who was holding Poppy tightly near the doorway.
“Go upstairs,” Silas said, his voice quiet, deep, and absolute. “Take my car from the west garage. The keys are in the visor. Drive to the estate in Lake Geneva. My personal guard team there is loyal only to me. Show them this.”
Silas reached into his pocket and pulled out his heavy gold signet ring—the symbol of the Marino family patriarch—and pressed it into Mara’s hand.
“What about you?” Mara asked, her brown eyes meeting his through the lingering smoke.
Silas looked down at Graham Voss, who was beginning to stir, coughing blood onto the concrete.
“Graham promised the city a show tonight,” Silas said, his grey eyes flashing with a cold, terrifying fire. “I’m going to make sure he delivers.”
Mara didn't argue. She nodded once, squeezed his hand tightly, and carried Poppy up the brick stairs, stepping over the unconscious form of Levin at the top landing.
Twenty minutes later, Silas Marino walked out the front doors of his North Shore mansion, wearing a clean black coat taken from his study. Behind him, the mansion stood quiet and dark.
Inside the trunk of his armored SUV lay Graham Voss and Marcus, bound with the very same blue industrial cord they had used on Silas.
Silas pulled his personal encrypted satellite phone from his pocket—the one kept in his study floor safe—and dialed a single number.
The call was answered on the first ring by Dominic Rossi, the head of the Chicago Commission and Silas’s oldest, most powerful ally.
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“Silas?” Dominic’s voice came through the speaker, heavy with shock. “The news says you’re missing. Graham Voss just called an emergency council meeting at the Grand Hotel downtown for twelve o'clock.”
“I know,” Silas said calmly, stepping into the driver’s seat of his vehicle. “I’m bringing the guest of honor.”
