Chapter 7 - The Council of ShadowsThe Vescari Family's private club sat in the heart of downtown Chicago—a historic, stone building masquerading as an exclusive gentleman's lounge.
At 8:30 PM, the heavy mahogany doors of the top-floor boardroom were locked tight. Sitting around the long marble table were the heads of the major regional crime syndicates, surrounded by armed guards.
At the head of the table sat Salvatore Vescari—a fat, arrogant man in a tailored grey suit, holding a lit cigar. Beside him stood District Attorney Victor Cross, wearing a pristine tuxedo, looking completely unbothered by the federal chaos unfolding across the city.
"Roman is finished," Salvatore declared to the room, gesturing with his cigar. "The feds have an absolute warrant for his arrest. By tomorrow morning, he’ll either be in a federal pen or at the bottom of the river. I am taking control of the Vescari assets tonight."
"And I assure you all," Victor Cross added smoothly, resting his hands on the back of Salvatore’s chair, "that under Salvatore's leadership, the District Attorney's office will maintain a very... comfortable relationship with your shipping operations."
The bosses around the table nodded slowly, preparing to accept the surrender of the city's most powerful territory.
Suddenly, the heavy iron-reinforced doors of the boardroom exploded open with a deafening crash.
Two bodyguards at the door collapsed before they could draw their weapons.
Roman Vescari stepped into the room, flanked by Nico and four heavily armed Vescari loyalists. Roman wore a dark, double-breasted suit, his face carved from cold granite, a heavy assault weapon resting casually in his grip.
Behind him walked me—wearing a sharp, black blazer, holding the leather-bound ledger against my ribs.
The room erupted into shouts. Half the bosses reached for their coats, but Roman’s men instantly raised their sights, locking the room down in absolute silence.
"Sit down," Roman commanded, his voice echoing off the high ceilings like thunder. "Every single one of you."
Salvatore dropped his cigar, his face turning an unsightly shade of purple. "Roman! You... you're a dead man! Cross, call the tactical units!"
Victor Cross froze, his eyes locking onto me as I stepped forward into the bright light of the chandelier.
"Hello, Victor," I said, my voice ringing out clear and cold across the room. "It’s been six years."
May you like
Cross swallowed hard, his arrogant composure slipping. "Elena? What... what are you doing with him? You're Thomas Marlowe's daughter!"
"I am," I said, stepping right up to the marble table. "And I'm here to deliver my father's final report."
