Chapter 5 - The Phantom Empress
The wind off Lake Michigan carried the scent of dead fish and impending snow. At the north terminal of the Chicago port, six black luxury vehicles sat in a semi-circle, their headlights cutting through the midnight fog.
The heads of the five major families—the rulers of the Chicago outfit—stood beneath the awning of the main shipping office. They were old men, hardened by decades of federal investigations and street violence. They had received Roman’s urgent summons, but they arrived to find the docks completely deserted of Bellandi workers.
“Where the hell is D’Angelo?” Silvio Moretti growled, his coat collar turned up against the chill. He looked at his daughter, Claire, who stood beside him, her face completely expressionless. “Claire, what happened at the house?”
“The situation has evolved, Father,” Claire said quietly.
Before Silvio could demand an explanation, the high-intensity stadium lights of the shipping yard flared to life, blinding the men for a brief second.
From the shadows behind the crane, a single figure walked out.
Maya did not look small beneath the towering machinery. She walked with a measured, deliberate grace that drew every eye. Behind her, walking like an obedient ghost, was Carlo Neri, his shoulder crudely bandaged, his face pale from blood loss. He was carrying a silver briefcase.
“Where is Roman?” asked Frank Bruno, the head of the South Side crews. “Who authorized you to be here, lady?”
Maya stopped ten feet from the council. Carlo set the briefcase on the hood of Silvio Moretti’s car and opened it. Inside were not stacks of cash, but three separate encrypted tablets and a series of financial ledgers.
“Roman D’Angelo is currently indisposed,” Maya said, her voice carrying clearly through the crisp night air. “He is learning the cost of treason in a holding facility downtown.”
“Treason?” Frank Bruno laughed. “This is the outfit, sweetheart. Dominic is dead. The seat is vacant. Roman is the natural successor.”
“Dominic is not dead,” Maya said. She tapped a button on her phone.
The tablets in the briefcase illuminated, showing a live video feed from the secure clinic in Cicero. Dominic lay on the bed, his chest rising and falling with the aid of the machine, but his eye was open. He looked directly into the camera, his hand lifting in a slow, distinct gesture of command—the three-finger sign of the Bellandi family seal.
The capos stepped back, their expressions shifting from amusement to profound shock.
“He is recovering,” Maya said, her voice dropping into a register that made the old men straighten their spines. “And while he recovers, I speak with his voice. I hold his ledger. And I hold the keys to every single distribution route from here to Montreal.”
She looked directly at Silvio Moretti. “Your Russian contract, Silvio? It was terminated forty minutes ago. The ships are currently being turned around by the Coast Guard under an anonymous tip regarding federal contraband.”
May you like
Silvio’s face turned purple. “You dare threaten the council?”
“I am not threatening you, Silvio,” Maya said, stepping closer until she was inches from him. She spoke in low, fluent Russian, using the exact phrase the Murmansk syndicate used to signify a death sentence. “I am telling you that the table has changed. You can kneel before the king tonight, or you can watch your empire disappear before the sun rises.”
