Chapter 9 - The Trial of Blood
On Thursday afternoon, the sky over downtown Chicago was heavy with gray snow clouds.
The annual Commission summit was held on the top floor of the historic Blackstone Hotel—a neutral ground protected by an independent security force hired by all five regional families.
Weston Kade entered the mahogany-paneled boardroom at 2:00 PM, flanked by Viktor and three legal advisors.
Sitting around the massive horseshoe table were the senior leaders of the Midwest syndicate, including Don Donato Marchetti, who sat at the far end, surrounded by his own lieutenants.
Don Marchetti smiled coldly as Weston took his seat at the head of the table.
"Weston," Marchetti rasped, tossing a fat cigars onto the polished wood. "I’m surprised you left your little fortress today. I thought you were busy playing family man."
The other bosses chuckled nervously, but Weston didn't react. He gestured to his legal team.
"Before we begin the agenda for the new transit contracts," Weston said, his voice echoing clearly across the high-ceilinged room, "I have a point of order regarding financial corruption within the alliance."
Viktor stepped forward, placing five thick white folders in front of the primary regional bosses.
"Over the last forty-eight hours," Weston explained, "my forensic auditors pulled the offshore routing numbers for the Marchetti shipping ports in Gary, Indiana. It appears Donato has been skimming six percent off the collective syndicate revenues for the past six years—totaling forty-two million dollars."
Don Marchetti’s smile instantly evaporated. He stood up, slamming his hands onto the table. "This is a lie! This is a manufactured fake to cover up his personal betrayal of our family agreement!"
"The bank signatures on page twelve are yours, Donato," Weston said calmly, leaning back in his leather chair. "Along with the wire transfers to your daughter’s private accounts in the Cayman Islands."
The oldest boss at the table, Don Carmine from Detroit, reviewed the papers, his brow furrowing deep into his wrinkled skin. He looked up at Marchetti with cold, ancient eyes.
"You stole from the collective, Donato?" Carmine asked softly.
"Carmine, listen to me—!" Marchetti began, but before he could finish, the heavy double doors of the boardroom were thrown open.
Odalys Marchetti stepped into the room, her high heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floor. She held an envelope in her hand, her face white as chalk.
"Father," Odalys said, her voice shaking in front of the assembled crime lords. "Stop."
"Odalys!" Marchetti barked. "Get out of here! This is Commission business!"
"The FBI executed a search warrant on our Gary office twenty minutes ago, Father," Odalys revealed, her tears breaking through her heavy makeup. "They have the ledgers. Someone gave them the complete paper trail from the 2022 shipments."
The room descended into utter chaos. Bosses stood up, shouting, while guards reached for their weapons.
Weston stood up slowly, picking up his coat.
"I gave them the papers, Donato," Weston declared over the noise, looking down at the ruined old man. "You threatened my family. So I dismantled yours. By four o'clock today, federal marshals will be at your home with an arrest warrant for racketeering, tax evasion, and conspiracy to commit murder."
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Don Marchetti collapsed back into his chair, his eyes wide, his power, his empire, and his freedom vanishing into thin air in a matter of seconds.
Weston turned on his heel and walked out of the boardroom, stepping out into the cool Chicago rain, leaving the ruined legacy of his enemies behind him forever.
