Chapter 8 - Shadows of the Past
The peace that settled over the Kade Syndicate was absolute, but in the underworld, absolute peace was merely the prelude to a new storm.
One evening, while reviewing financial ledgers in his second-floor study at the Ashcombe Street mansion, Weston noticed an anomaly. Silas stood across the mahogany desk, holding a thick manila folder stamped with red confidential markings.
"What is this?" Weston asked, tapping the folder with his fountain pen.
"Federal indictments," Silas said grimly. "Everett Marchetti was an idiot, but he wasn't operating in a vacuum. Before we took him down at the docks, he had been cutting deals with a corrupt federal prosecutor out of the Northern District of Illinois—a man named Harrison Vance."
Weston's eyes narrowed. "Vance. The name sounds familiar."
"He's the federal attorney who led the task force targeting underworld finances three years ago," Silas explained, flipping open the folder to reveal a series of surveillance photographs. "Vance has been using Marchetti’s network to launder bribe money and fabricate fraudulent corruption charges against independent syndicates, specifically targeting us. With Marchetti dead, Vance has lost his primary muscle, but he's desperate. He knows we have the paper trail linking him to the dock smuggling operations."
"He wants to make a splash before his corruption gets exposed," Weston concluded, his voice dropping into a cold register. "Where is he now?"
"He's hosting a high-society charity gala at the Drake Hotel downtown tomorrow night," Silas replied. "Half the city's political elite, judges, and high-ranking law enforcement officers will be in attendance. It's heavily secured by private security and federal marshals. We can't hit him there directly without triggering an all-out war with the FBI."
Weston closed the ledger slowly. A dark, calculated smile touched the corners of his lips.
"Who said anything about hitting him with guns, Silas?" Weston stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. "Sometimes, the most devastating weapon isn't a bullet. It's the truth."
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"What do you have in mind?" Silas asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Get in touch with our contacts in the investigative press," Weston instructed smoothly. "We are going to give Harrison Vance a front-row seat to his own political execution."
