Chapter 2 - Blood and Iron
The Grand Hotel’s private ballroom was suffocatingly quiet.
At the center of the room sat Don Emilio Vanezzi, a seventy-year-old mafia dinosaur who had spent thirty years waiting for the Moretti dynasty to collapse. Around him stood twelve heavily armed syndicate soldiers, their coats slightly open to reveal the handles of their sidearms.
When the double doors swung open, the room went dead silent.
Dominic pushed my wheelchair through the entrance, flanked by four of my most ruthless lieutenants. I wore a bespoke charcoal suit, my posture rigid, my eyes locking onto Vanezzi like a predator marking its prey.
"Emilio," I said, my voice cutting through the thick air. "I hear you were worried about my health."
Vanezzi shifted uncomfortably in his chair, forcing a patronizing smile that didn't reach his yellowed eyes. "Adrian. Word was you were bedridden. In our line of work, a weak leader is an invitation to chaos."
"I had a fever, Emilio. Not a funeral," I replied smoothly, wheeling myself to the head of the long oak table. "Though if you keep pushing into my northern shipping routes, a funeral can certainly be arranged. Yours."
Vanezzi’s smile vanished. "You talk tough for a man stuck in a chair, Moretti. Your father was a warrior. You sit behind mahogany desks and hide behind security cameras."
"My father is dead because he trusted men like you," I said coldly.
The room grew so tense that the sound of a pin dropping would have sounded like a gunshot. Vanezzi’s jaw twitched.
"What did you say?" Vanezzi sneered.
"Twenty-two years ago, someone tampered with my father’s brakes," I continued, resting my hands calmly on my lap. "I spent two decades believing I was responsible. But this morning, I acquired the original mechanic's report from the police precinct you paid off in 2004."
Vanezzi’s face turned from arrogant tan to a sickly, pale gray. He reached toward his inner jacket pocket.
CLICK.
Before Vanezzi’s hand could touch his holster, Dominic and my four lieutenants had drawn their suppressed pistols, aiming them directly at Vanezzi’s forehead.
"Try it, Emilio," I whispered. "Give me the reason I've been waiting twenty-two years for."
Vanezzi’s hand froze inside his coat. Sweat broke out across his brow. "You can't prove anything, Moretti. That was two decades ago! The commission won't let you start a war over ancient history!"
"I don't need the commission," I said, rolling my chair closer until I was inches from his face. "I own this city. I own the docks your ships use, the banks holding your offshore cash, and the judges who keep your sons out of prison. Effective immediately, the Vanezzi family is stripped of all territory north of 95th Street."
"You can't do this!" Vanezzi choked out.
"If I see your face or your men in my district after sundown," I warned, my tone terrifyingly calm, "I won't send you to prison. I will bury you in the concrete of the new stadium."
I signaled Dominic with a slight flick of my wrist. "Get him out of my sight."
Ten minutes later, as Dominic pushed my chair back toward my bulletproof SUV in the hotel garage, he leaned down. "Boss... Vanezzi won't take this lying down. He's desperate now."
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"Desperate men make mistakes, Dominic," I said, looking out the darkened window as the snow began to fall again. "Increase the guard at the estate. Nobody enters or leaves without my personal clearance."
My mind didn't stay on Vanezzi for long. As the SUV glided through the snowy streets of Chicago, my thoughts kept returning to the warm, quiet study, the scent of lavender soap, and the woman who had looked past my iron mask to see the broken sixteen-year-old boy inside.
