Chapter 9 - The Commission’s Choice
By late July, the city of Chicago had accepted the new order. The Vasquez name had been wiped from the ledgers of the Cicero docks, and the monthly distributions to the city’s six major crews were arriving three days early, handled through a streamlined corporate logistics firm that Marco had established out of the Vance Tower.
The grand dining room of the Hotel Allegro was closed to the public on a rainy Tuesday evening. Sitting around the long walnut table were the five remaining heads of the Chicago Syndicate—old men with thick accents and soft hands who had survived forty years of street wars by knowing when to bend.
Dominic Moretti sat at the center, his gold signet ring tapping against his crystal wine glass.
"Marco has cleared the West Side," Moretti said, looking around the table at the heavy faces of his peers. "He’s doing it with less noise than his father ever did. The numbers are up thirty percent across the board. The ports are clean."
A man from the North Side named Gambino, a sharp-faced cynic with a silver mustache, leaned forward. "We don't care about the numbers, Dominic. We care about the stability. There are rumors that he’s bringing the girl from the penthouse into the family council. A woman who was a servant eleven months ago. A girl with a brother on the South Side who doesn't know the difference between a wire and a tie."
The heavy double doors of the dining room swung open.
Marco walked in, but he wasn't alone. He was pushing a high-end, lightweight wheelchair made of polished carbon fiber. Sitting in it was Lena Carter, dressed in a simple, elegant dark blue silk dress, her brown hair pinned up with a silver comb that had belonged to Isabella Duca. Her face was calm, her eyes steady as she looked at the five most dangerous men in the state.
Behind them walked Caruso, carrying a single leather briefcase.
Marco stopped at the foot of the table. He didn't sit down. He kept his hands resting on the handles of Lena’s chair.
"This is Lena Carter," Marco said, his voice filling the room like an iron shutter falling. "As of nine o'clock tomorrow morning, she is the primary trustee for the Duca Medical Foundation, which now holds forty-nine percent of the real estate assets on the South Side block. Every clinic, every rehab center, and every residential property we own will report directly to her."
Gambino stood up, his face flushing red. "You’re crazy, Marco! You’re giving half the family asset to a girl who took a bullet for your ma? That ain't business—that's a romance novel!"
Lena looked up at Gambino. Her voice, when she spoke, was low, clear, and carried the exact, unhurried weight she had used when dealing with Isabella’s worst breathing spells.
"Mr. Gambino," she said, opening the leather portfolio Caruso had set in front of her. "The North Side logistics lines use three warehouses on Elston Avenue that are currently registered under a shell company called Greyhound Freight. Over the last six years, you’ve been underreporting the transit fees by four percent to hide the extra profit from the commission's central pool."
Gambino’s silver mustache twitched, his mouth opening but no sound coming out.
"I spent eleven months listening to the drivers who brought your deliveries to the penthouse," Lena continued, her brown eyes perfectly serene. "They like to talk when they’re waiting for their receipts. I don't care about your four percent, Mr. Gambino. But if you raise your voice to my husband again, the Duca Medical Foundation will buy the ground lease for those three warehouses by noon tomorrow, and your trucks will be parking in the river."
The room went completely, beautifully silent. Dominic Moretti let out a loud, barking laugh that rattled the crystal pendants on the chandelier.
May you like
"She’s a Duca, Gambino," the old boss chuckled, raising his glass toward Lena. "Sit your old ass down before she takes your car too."
Marco looked down at Lena, his amber eyes soft with an absolute, unbreakable pride. He reached down, his large hand sliding into hers, their fingers locking together over the walnut table as the remaining bosses slowly lowered their heads in silent, total submission.
