Chicago’s Most Feared Mafia Boss Pretended to Be Their Father Until the Waitress Revealed Why His Enemies Had Chosen Her Daughters

At 11:00 AM, the Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel in downtown Chicago was silent as a tomb.

Sitting around a long, oval marble table were the bosses of the five major criminal organizations of Chicago: the Irish Mob from the West Side, the Chinatown syndicate, the Polish syndicate from Green Street, Frankie Moretti, and two senior captains representing the Bratva.

Dozens of armed bodyguards lined the perimeter wall, their eyes dark and watchful.

Frankie Moretti stood at the head of the table, slamming his fist against the marble.

“Voss has lost his mind!” Frankie shouted, his face red with rage. “He attacked my men on 24th Street! He wiped out six of Sergei Petrov’s soldiers! He is harboring a woman who stole two million dollars from my private accounts!”

At the opposite end of the table sat Arthur Pendelton—the oldest boss in the city, an eighty-year-old statesman of the Irish Mob who had ruled the West Side for forty years.

Arthur raised a frail, spotted hand. “Where is Mason?”

Before Frankie could answer, the double oak doors of the ballroom were thrown open.

Mason Voss walked into the room.

He wore a bespoke black three-piece suit, his grey hair neatly brushed, his expression cool, calm, and utterly terrifying. Walking beside him was Rosa Vargas, wearing an elegant black dress, carrying a leather briefcase in her right hand.

Behind them walked four of Mason’s top enforcers, led by Dominic, who carried a silver laptop case.

Frankie’s eyes bulged in shock. “How dare you bring that woman into this council!” Frankie screamed, pointing his finger at Rosa. “She is a thief! Her husband stole from my vault!”

Mason walked up to the foot of the marble table. He pulled out a chair for Rosa, allowed her to sit down, and then stood beside her, resting his hand casually on the back of her chair.

“Quiet, Frankie,” Mason said softly.

The sheer authority in his voice was so absolute that Frankie’s jaw snapped shut, his face turning from red to purple.

Mason looked around the table at the other crime bosses.

“Frankie Moretti called you here today to demand my execution for breaking the Chicago Code,” Mason stated, his clear, deep voice echoing through the ballroom. “He told you I interfered in a private collection matter.”

Mason signaled to Rosa.

Rosa opened her leather briefcase, pulled out the oilskin packages and Carlos’s handwritten letter, and laid them on the center of the marble table.

“These are the two point two million dollars in bearer bonds Carlos Vargas took two years ago,” Mason said.

The bosses leaned forward, their eyes widening in surprise.

“Carlos didn't steal those bonds from Frankie’s vault,” Mason continued, his eyes locking onto Frankie’s trembling face. “Frankie stole those bonds from the Chicago Children’s Hospital Development Fund, which was backed by the City Treasury.”

A low murmur ran around the marble table. Stealing from rival syndicates was business; bringing federal law enforcement down on the entire city by stealing state municipal funds was a violation of the highest order.

“Furthermore,” Mason added, pulling a small USB drive from his pocket and dropping it beside the bonds, “that drive contains complete video footage and manifest logs from Moretti Logistics. For the past eighteen months, Frankie has been selling heavy automatic weapons to street gangs operating within two blocks of elementary schools—including St. Jude’s on 24th Street.”

Arthur Pendelton’s eyes narrowed into icy slits. He looked at Frankie with profound disgust.

“We have a rule in this city, Frankie,” Arthur said, his old voice trembling with fury. “We don't bring federal heat into our neighborhoods. And we leave the children alone.”

“It’s a lie!” Frankie panicked, looking wildly around the room at his fellow bosses. “Voss fabricated those logs! Sergei, tell them! Tell them Voss attacked your men!”

The senior Russian captain sitting at the table stood up slowly. He looked at the USB drive, then at the bearer bonds, and finally at Mason Voss.

The Russian captain turned his gaze toward Frankie Moretti.

“You lied to us, Moretti,” the Russian captain said, his voice flat and dangerous. “You told us we were retrieving stolen syndicate property. You did not tell us you were dragging us into a federal war with Mason Voss over stolen city funds.”

The Russian captain bowed his head slightly toward Mason. “The Bratva withdraws all support from the Moretti family. Effective immediately.”

The two Russian captains stood up and walked out of the ballroom, taking their four armed bodyguards with them.

Frankie went pale as paper. He reached frantically for his waist coat—

CLICK-CLACK!

Forty armed guards belonging to the Irish, Polish, and Chinatown syndicates simultaneously unholstered their weapons, aiming every single barrel straight at Frankie Moretti’s head.