Chapter 5 - The Council of Blood
At ten o'clock the following morning, the grand glass skyscraper towering over downtown Chicago was under total lockdown.
In the subterranean executive conference room—a room built with three-inch-thick reinforced steel walls and electronic signal jammers—five men sat around a circular black marble table. These were the heads of the most powerful criminal syndicates in North America: the heads of the New York, Detroit, Miami, and West Coast families.
At the head of the table sat Julian Hale.
Beside him sat no armed bodyguards, no lieutenants, and no legal advisors. Instead, a small wooden chair had been pulled up right next to his executive throne.
Amara—wearing a bright yellow sundress Grace had bought her that morning—sat beside the most feared crime boss in the Midwest, eating strawberry pancakes off a golden plate.
The elderly boss of the New York family, Don Carmine Lucchesi, leaned forward, his weathered face twisted in disbelief as he adjusted his ring-adorned fingers.
"Julian," Carmine rasped, his thick Italian accent cutting through the room. "You summon the entire Commission to Chicago on two hours' notice... to watch you feed a toddler?"
The other bosses chuckled darkly, though their eyes remained wary. Nobody survived thirty minutes in a room with Julian Hale by being careless.
Julian didn't smile. He carefully wiped a smudge of strawberry syrup from Amara’s chin with a white cloth napkin.
"Two years ago," Julian spoke, his calm voice immediately silencing the room, "Viktor Petrov breached my private estate in Zurich. He set a fire. He claimed my wife and my daughter."
Carmine’s laughter died instantly. The room went cold.
"We remember, Julian," the Miami boss spoke up softly. "You tore half of Europe apart looking for retribution."
"I was lied to," Julian continued, resting his hand gently over his daughter's shoulder. "Petrov didn't kill my daughter. He stole her. He paid corrupt doctors to erase her memory, planning to use her as ultimate leverage against my empire when the time was right."
Julian looked down at the little girl beside him, who smiled up at him with a mouth full of pancake.
"This is Maya," Julian announced, his voice ringing like a bronze bell off the steel walls. "She came home to me last night. And last night, Viktor Petrov’s brother tried to enter my home to take her back. I put a bullet through his brain."
A collective sharp intake of breath rattled around the marble table.
"Viktor Petrov is currently airborne with two hundred tactical mercenaries, heading for Chicago," Julian said, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "He intends to launch an all-out war on my territory."
"Julian," Don Carmine said, his eyes serious and calculating. "The Commission rules are clear. We do not engage in international syndicate wars on domestic soil. It brings too much federal attention. If Petrov is coming for you, it’s a personal vendetta."
Julian stood up slowly. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy, suffocating, as if the oxygen were being sucked out by sheer force of will.
"I am not asking for your permission, Carmine," Julian whispered, leaning over the table, his dark eyes locking onto each boss one by one. "And I am not asking you to fight my war. I am telling you that Chicago is my city. Every port, every airfield, every road entering this state belongs to me."
He slammed his hand onto the black marble table.
"I called you here to tell you that if any of your families provide safe passage, intelligence, or shelter to Viktor Petrov’s men while they are on American soil, I will consider it an act of war against the Hale Syndicate. I will burn your families to the ground, down to the last second cousin."
Silence descended upon the conference room. Four of the most powerful men in the country looked at Julian Hale and saw a man who had transcended fear, money, and power. They were looking at a father who had been given back his soul—and possessed the terrifying means to protect it.
Don Carmine looked at the little girl in the yellow dress, then back at Julian.
Slowly, the old Italian boss stood up, holding out his hand.
"The Lucchesi family locks down every port in New York," Carmine declared firmly. "No Russian steps foot on the East Coast without my permission. God help Viktor Petrov, Julian. Because heaven knows no man on earth can save him from you."
One by one, the other bosses stood up, bowing their heads in agreement.
Amara looked up from her golden plate, pointing a strawberry at her father. "Mister... are these old men your friends?"
May you like
Julian looked down at his daughter, his expression softening into a rare, beautiful smile.
"They're going to help us make sure nobody ever disturbs our dinner again, sweetheart," Julian said softly, picking her up into his arms. "Come on. Let's go home."
