Chapter 7 - The West Side Cleansing
The retaliation was not a loud affair; it was a systematic, clinical liquidation of the Kane family’s remaining financial infrastructure.
By Monday morning, Callum Voss sat in the high-backed leather chair of his private office at the 31st Street logistics yards, a cup of black coffee sitting untouched on the desk before him. The large digital monitors on the wall showed live feeds of the city’s major shipping lines—every truck, every container, every warehouse from the South Side docks to the rail yards in Cicero was completely dark.
"Arthur Kane died at four this morning, Boss," Marcus said, standing near the door, his jaw now covered in a clean white bandage. "His heart failed while his sons were trying to move him to a private clinic in Wisconsin. The sons—Dominic and Peter—are currently trapped inside their compound on Taylor Street. They have no money left in the accounts, Callum. We’ve frozen their distribution lines, and the Lucchesi family has officially absorbed their Cicero contracts."
Callum took a slow drag from his clove cigarette, the sweet smoke filling the concrete office. "What about Vivienne?"
"She left for Paris on the six AM flight from O'Hare," Marcus said, checking his tablet. "She signed the asset waiver before she cleared security. She’s out of the ledger, Callum. She told her brothers that if they stay in Chicago, they’re committing suicide."
"They are," Callum said flatly. He stood up, walking to the window that looked out over the vast, snow-covered expanse of the shipping yard. "Marcus, call the Lucchesi brothers. Tell them the Kane territory is theirs, but I want the Taylor Street sector cleared of all Syndicate operations. No gambling, no union skimming, no protection taxes. That sector belongs to Iris’s father. If a single soldier collects a nickel from those bakeries, I’ll take their hands."
"Done," Marcus said, making a notation on the tablet. "And your mother, sir? She’s been calling from the Lake Shore penthouse since dawn. She wants to know if she can return for her jewelry."
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"Tell her the jewelry was liquidated to pay for Iris’s father’s medical suite in Oak Park," Callum said, his voice dropping into a chillingly calm whisper. "If she sets foot in Lake Forest again, tell the guards to call the federal marshals. I left a folder of her old tax returns on the district attorney’s desk this morning. She has exactly forty-eight hours to leave the country before the grand jury convenes."
He reached for his overcoat, adjusting the silver watch on his wrist—the same watch Wren had been fascinated by in the sunroom. "I’m going to the hospice. Keep the perimeter tight until I get back."
