Chapter 7 - The Penthouse Confrontation
The executive boardroom on the fortieth floor was a masterpiece of glass, polished chrome, and dark walnut. Twelve of the most feared capos and regional bosses of the Chicago underworld sat around the massive oval table, murmuring among themselves in tense, agitated tones.
At the head of the table sat Julian Blackwood. Dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit with a crisp white shirt, his silver hair neatly combed, he looked every bit the distinguished corporate philanthropist. But the twitch in his left eye betrayed the nervous panic gnawing at his insides.
“Gentlemen,” Julian began, raising his hands to quiet the room. “We are all grieving the tragic loss of my brother Ethan, whose life was brutally cut short last night during a home invasion at the Ashcombe estate. In light of this devastating vacuum in leadership, we must act swiftly to stabilize our shipping routes and maintain order across our territories.”
“Hold on a minute, Julian,” growled Sal Marchetti, an elderly capo from the West Side who had known Ethan since they were boys. “Ethan doesn't die quietly. I want to see the body. I want a forensic report before we start carving up his empire.”
“The fire in the estate wing was extensive, Sal,” Julian replied smoothly, though a bead of sweat tracked down his collar. “There was very little left to—"
“I look terrible for a dead man, Julian.”
The heavy mahogany double doors of the boardroom swung open with a resounding crash.
Every man at the table froze.
Ethan Blackwood stepped into the room, his stride steady and unhurried, his hands resting casually at his sides. Behind him stood Victor, holding a heavy tactical shotgun at high port.
Julian turned deathly pale, pushing his chair back so hard it screeched against the hardwood floor. “Ethan... how... that’s impossible—”
“You thought a couple of masked mercs and a rigged service elevator would do the trick?” Ethan’s voice echoed off the glass walls, cold and resonant. “You always did underestimate me, little brother.”
“Shoot him!” Julian screamed, pointing frantically at Ethan. “He’s an imposter! He’s gone rogue!”
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Not a single capo moved. They sat frozen, their eyes darting between Julian’s panicked expression and Ethan’s absolute, unshakeable calm. Sal Marchetti slowly stood up, resting his gnarled hands on the edge of the table.
“Sit down, Julian,” Sal rasped, his voice dripping with venom. “Let the man speak.”
