Chapter 3 - The Midnight Assembly
The subterranean board room beneath the Caruso headquarters smelled of rain, expensive cigar smoke, and fear.
Twelve men sat around the thirty-foot mahogany table—the street captains who controlled Chicago’s docks, union halls, gaming dens, and private security firms. They were hardened men who had survived two decades of gang wars, yet as I stepped into the room from the private elevator, every single one of them stood up in unison.
I walked to the head of the table, not bothering to take off my heavy coat. Michael stood at my right hand, a thick leather portfolio tucked under his arm.
"Sit," I commanded.
The chair legs scraped loudly against the marble floor as twelve ruthless men sat down, their eyes fixed on me with intense nervousness.
"Twenty-two years ago," I began, my voice echoing off the stone walls, "we established the boundaries of this city. We drew lines in the snow. We agreed that families were off-limits. Children were untouchable. We fought our wars in the alleys and the boardrooms, not in the homes of innocent women."
Captain Frank Ross, an older man who managed the shipping yards, leaned forward. "Vincent, we heard about the fire in the industrial precinct tonight. The rumor on the street is that Marcus Vance’s boys were cleaning out an illegal squatter camp."
"It wasn't a squatter camp," I said, leaning my hands on the shiny wood of the table. "It was the home of Gabriel Caruso."
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Men looked at each other in utter shock and disbelief.
"Gabriel?" Ross stammered. "Gabriel died in '09 off Lake Shore Drive!"
"Gabriel lived," I corrected cold, hard certainty ringing in every word. "He surrendered his name and his inheritance to live in peace with Elena Vance. Tonight, Marcus Vance broke the sacred covenant. He set fire to his own daughter’s house. He murdered my brother."
I paused, letting the weight of the declaration crush the room into absolute silence.
"Where is Elena?" asked Sal Moretti, captain of the south side territory.
"Dead or captured," I said grimly. "We are searching the ashes now. But Gabriel’s daughter survived."
I looked at every captain, eye to eye, making sure the message burned into their souls.
"Her name is Clara Caruso. She is eight years old. She walked three miles through a blizzard tonight carrying her father’s signet ring to find me. And as of midnight, every resource, every dollar, every rifle, and every officer under the Caruso banner is mobilized for her protection."
Frank Ross slammed his fist onto the table, his face flushed with righteous anger. "What are your orders, Boss?"
"We don't fight a defensive war," I said, pulling a map of Chicago from Michael’s folder and spreading it across the table. "Marcus Vance thinks he’s an old lion taking his final bites. I want his financial supply lines cut by sunrise. Shut down his docks in Gary. Freeze his overseas shell accounts through our banking contacts in Zurich. And put a two-million-dollar bounty on Julian Vance—alive."
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"Why alive?" Moretti asked.
"Because Marcus Vance loves his son more than he loves his own life," I said, a cold, calculated smile appearing on my face for the first time in years. "And I’m going to make him watch his empire crumble before I take his breath."
