Chapter 2 - The First Brick Falls
At 3:45 A.M., the heavy iron gates of the Cross Estate in Oak Park opened without a sound.
The mansion was an old stone structure built in the 1920s, surrounded by ancient oaks and high concrete walls. It was the historical seat of the Cross Syndicate, the place where Adrian’s father had run the Midwest underground for thirty years.
In the grand cigar room on the ground floor, Julian Vance sat in a plush leather armchair, a glass of twenty-year-old scotch in his hand. He was fifty-eight, with thinning gray hair, expensive tailored clothes, and the hard, pitted skin of a man who had survived three decades of street warfare.
Around him sat four senior lieutenants—men who controlled the docks, the union kickbacks, and the illegal gambling rings.
“He won't do anything tonight,” Julian was saying, taking a slow sip of his drink. “The girl is just an employee. A fat secretary he hired to make his corporate offices look diverse. Adrian is a businessman now. He’s too busy signing papers with the mayor to start a war over a clerk.”
The heavy double doors of the cigar room burst inward.
They didn't just open; the solid oak frames split as Thomas Cole—Adrian’s head of personal security—kicked them off their hinges.
Before any of the lieutenants could draw their weapons, six men in unmarked tactical gear flooded the room, their suppressed rifles raised and trained directly on the heads of Julian’s inner circle.
The room froze. The air instantly filled with the sharp stench of terror.
Then, Adrian Cross walked into the room.
He wasn't wearing his executive suit jacket anymore. He wore a black tactical turtleneck, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos that covered his skin—tattoos he had gotten in his youth, symbols of the old family rites that he had hidden beneath silk shirts for half a decade.
Julian set his scotch glass down on the side table, his hand trembling slightly, though he tried to mask it with an arrogant smile.
“Adrian,” Julian said, spreading his hands. “What is the meaning of this? You break into my quarters with armed men?”
Adrian didn't answer. He walked over to the mahogany desk in the center of the room, picked up a heavy crystal decanter, and casually dropped it onto the hardwood floor.
CRASH.
The glass shattered, splashing amber liquor across the expensive Persian rug.
“Where is the silver drive, Julian?” Adrian asked quietly.
Julian’s smile faltered. “I don't know what you're talking about. If this is about your secretary’s mugging—”
Adrian stepped forward with blinding speed. He didn't draw a gun. He reached out, grabbed Julian by the throat, and lifted the older man straight out of his leather chair, slamming him backward onto the grand mahogany desk!
Papers, lamps, and brass ornaments went flying onto the floor.
“Adrian!” one of the lieutenants yelled, making a move toward his belt, but Thomas Cole instantly pressed the cold steel barrel of an assault rifle against the man’s temple.
“Move,” Thomas barked, “and I’ll paint this rug with your brain.”
Adrian leaned over Julian, his hand tightening around the underboss’s windpipe. Julian clawed at Adrian’s fingers, his face turning a dark, mottled purple, his eyes wide with sudden, catastrophic fear.
“I asked you a question,” Adrian growled, his voice vibrating through the desk. “Where is the silver drive?”
“In... in my safe...” Julian choked out, tears streaming from his eyes. “In... the wall...”
Adrian turned his head toward Thomas. "Open it."
Thomas walked over to the oil painting behind the desk, swung it aside, entered a four-digit code that Adrian’s team had extracted hours ago, and pulled out the metallic silver flash drive.
“Got it, Boss,” Thomas said.
Adrian turned his attention back to Julian. He leaned in closer, until his lips were inches from the older man’s ear.
“You ordered my secretary beaten,” Adrian whispered. “You had your men insult her body. You thought she was weak because she doesn't carry a gun.”
“She... she’s nobody...” Julian gasped, struggling for air. “She’s just... a clerk...”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed into dark slits of absolute venom.
“She is the only reason you have spent the last five years alive, Julian,” Adrian said softly. “Every time my father’s old instincts told me to execute you for stealing from the unions, Audrey showed me a balance sheet that proved you were more useful alive. She saved your life twenty times over, and you broke her bones.”
Adrian slammed Julian’s head down onto the wood one more time, then released his throat.
Julian collapsed onto the desk, coughing violently, gasping for air, clutching his neck.
Adrian turned to face the four lieutenants, who were sweating profusely under the laser sights of the tactical team.
“Effective six o'clock this morning,” Adrian announced, his voice carrying the finality of a death sentence, “the Cross Syndicate is liquidated. Every illegal gambling hall, every dock contract, every extortion ring is terminated.”
The lieutenants gasped in shock.
“You can't do that!” one of them stammered. “That’s fifty million dollars a year in revenue! The other families in New York will destroy us!”
“Let them try,” Adrian replied coldly. “I am selling the real estate assets to a public land trust. The money will be transferred to a medical foundation for victims of violent crime. As for the rest of you... you have twenty-four hours to leave Chicago. If I see any of you within city limits by tomorrow night, Thomas will handle you.”
Adrian looked down at Julian, who was sitting on the floor, holding his throat.
May you like
“And as for you, Julian... you’re going to give me every name of every man who touched Audrey tonight. If you miss one name, I will give the FBI the financial ledgers your men stole.”
Adrian turned his back on them and walked out of the room, leaving the remnants of a fifty-year-old criminal empire crumbling behind him in the shattered glass.
