Chapter 5 - The Grand Plaza Siege
At 5:15 a.m., rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the Grand Plaza Hotel penthouse in downtown Chicago.
Inside the opulent, marble-floored ballroom, seventy floors above the city streets, the heads of Chicago's five major crime families sat around a massive oval mahogany table. Heavy crystal chandeliers illuminated the room, reflecting off glasses of expensive Scotch and polished leather holsters.
At the head of the table sat Dominic Moretti—a fifty-year-old tyrant with slicked-back gray hair, a double-breasted designer suit, and a smile like a shark waiting for blood.
Sitting beside him was Paul Mercer, my former financial strategist, nervously adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses while opening a leather binder containing the fake transfer deeds for my entire corporate empire.
"Gentlemen," Dominic Moretti announced, raising his glass of amber liquid to the room. "Tonight marks the end of an era. The Carter family ruled this city with outdated ideas of honor, restraint, and silence for thirty years. But Vincent Carter is dead, his house is burned, and his nephew has delivered his network into our hands."
A few elders around the table shifted uncomfortably.
Old Man Lucchesi, the seventy-year-old head of the South Side docks, leaned forward, his heavy hands resting on the table. "Where is the body, Dominic? Vincent Carter wasn't a man who died easily. We haven't seen a photo of his corpse."
Dominic laughed, waving a dismissive hand. "His estate was reduced to ash three hours ago. Marcus Carter personally handled the hit. The boy is securing the West Side docks as we speak. The Carter era is over, Lucchesi. Now, sign the commission transfer documents so we can begin liquidating their offshore accounts."
Paul Mercer slid the thick leather ledger across the polished table toward Lucchesi, holding out a gold fountain pen. "Sign here, Mr. Lucchesi. It legitimizes the transition under commission law."
BOOM!
A deafening explosion rocked the entire seventy-floor penthouse. The massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows at the back of the ballroom shattered into millions of sparkling shards as high-grade breaching charges detonated across the structural pillars.
Thick smoke and gray wind roared into the room, sending papers flying into the air like white birds.
Before the commission security guards could draw their weapons, red laser dots cut through the thick smoke.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Suppressed automatic rifle fire erupted from the perimeter. Dominic’s personal bodyguards dropped to the floor instantly, their blood staining the white marble surrounding the oval table.
From the shattered balcony frame, swinging down from heavy tactical ropes attached to the roof above, three figures crashed through the smoke into the ballroom.
Leading the assault was Elena, wearing black body armor, two tactical sidearms strapped to her chest, firing with surgical precision as she cleared the right flank of the room.
Beside her was Marcus, wielding a suppressed rifle, his eyes locked onto Dominic Moretti with pure, lethal focus.
And stepping through the center of the smoke, clad in his classic dark wool trench coat, his hand resting calmly over a heavy .45 caliber pistol, was me.
"Vincent...?" Lucchesi gasped, stumbling back from his chair, his hands flying into the air.
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The entire commission room erupted into absolute, terrifying chaos.
"The ghost of Chicago has arrived, Dominic," I said, my voice echoing above the roar of the wind through the broken windows. "And I came to collect my rent."
