Chapter 4 - The War Council
By 2:00 AM, eleven men sat around the long mahogany table in the estate's subterranean boardroom. These were the Caporegimes of the Torino family—men who controlled the docks, the construction unions, the gambling dens, and the distribution networks across Illinois.
Normally, these meetings were orderly, calm, and lucrative. Tonight, the room was a pressure cooker of tension and anger.
"With all due respect, Boss," started Sal, a veteran capo with silver hair who managed the riverfront rackets, "we’re going to war over a seamstress? A nobody from South Ashland?"
"Watch your tongue, Sal," Frank growled from the corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
"I’m just asking the practical question!" Sal shot back, spreading his hands. "Victor Vane has two hundred shooters in the industrial district. He’s psycho! He doesn't play by the commission rules! If we go to war with Ironhead, federal agents will be crawling all over our legitimate businesses! We’ll lose millions!"
"Sal is right, Vincent," added Jimmy "The Nose," who ran the union funds. "What was this woman to us? Was her dead husband one of ours? No! He was an independent accountant who stole from Victor Vane and died three years ago! Why are we swimming in this mud?"
Vincent sat at the head of the table. He hadn't said a word since the meeting started. He just listened, his hands folded neatly in front of him on the dark wood.
The room gradually quieted down as one by one, the capos realized their boss was staring at them with a look that could melt lead.
When total silence returned, Vincent spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a fresh razor blade.
"Thirty years ago," Vincent began slowly, "this family was built on a promise. We told the people in our neighborhoods that as long as they paid their fair dues and respected our territory, no outside filth would ever harm them. We promised that a mother could walk her child to school without being dragged into an alley by animals."
He stood up slowly, towering over the table.
"Over the last ten years, we got comfortable. We got rich. We sat in luxury restaurants like The Golden Palm and ate lobster while Victor Vane turned South Chicago into a slaughterhouse. We let him beat women, sell poison to teenagers, and terrorize innocent people because it was 'good for business.'"
He slammed his heavy fist onto the table. The sudden boom made three capos jump in their seats.
"A seven-year-old girl walked into my restaurant tonight covered in her mother's blood!" Vincent roared, his eyes blazing with a terrifying, righteous fury. "She didn't go to the police! She didn't go to the politicians! She came to us! Because she thought we were strong enough to protect her!"
He looked at Sal, then at Jimmy, his gaze burning into them until they lowered their eyes in shame.
"If we are too cowardly to protect a child and her mother from a dog like Victor Vane, then we don't deserve this city," Vincent declared cold-bloodedly. "I am not asking for your approval. I am telling you how it is going to be. Tomorrow morning, we wipe the Ironhead Syndicate off the map of Chicago. Any man at this table who doesn't have the stomach for it can leave his keys on this table right now and walk out."
No one moved. No one spoke.
May you like
Sal swallowed hard, looked down at his hands, and then looked back up at Vincent. "What’s the plan, Boss?"
Vincent smiled—a grim, terrifying smile that promised blood. "We hunt."
