Chapter 6 - Blood on the Ledger
The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a glittering palace of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and monstrous men dressed in five-thousand-dollar tuxedos.
Outside, a driving Chicago blizzard battered the tall arched windows, but inside, the air was warm, heavy with the scent of expensive perfume, Cuban cigars, and unrestrained power. More than three hundred of Chicago’s elite—politicians, defense attorneys, shipping tycoons, and high-ranking members of the Vale syndicate—mingled beneath the gilded ceilings.
I wore an emerald-green silk gown that Dominic’s personal stylists had delivered to the estate that morning. It was cut high at the neck and elegant, but beneath the silk lining of my left sleeve, the rice-grain data skimmer Caleb had given me was secured with a strip of medical tape.
Beside me, Caleb sat at the head table.
He looked breathtakingly handsome in a bespoke black tuxedo, his dark hair neatly styled, his jaw clean-shaven. Yet, he played his role with sickening perfection. He stared vacantly at the centerpiece of white orchids, his hands resting limply in his lap, his head tilted at an awkward, submissive angle.
Dominic stood beside him, holding a crystal flute of vintage champagne, laughing boisterously with a group of elderly men in tailored suits.
Among them was Judge Julian Vance—a rotund, silver-haired man with a florid face and arrogant, rheumy eyes. In his left breast pocket, a heavy gold pen and a sleek, titanium-cased hardware wallet were faintly visible beneath the silk lapel of his dinner jacket.
“Look at him,” Dominic announced loudly, gesturing dismissively toward Caleb with his champagne glass. Several men chuckled politely. “My son, the master of real estate. Doesn't say a word, doesn't spend a dime on women or sports cars. If all heirs were this quiet, Julian, we wouldn't need trust lawyers, would we?”
Judge Vance smiled thinly, swirling his scotch. “A quiet heir is an obedient heir, Dominic. Just make sure the annual conservatorship renewal is executed before the grand jury reconvenes next month.”
“Already handled,” Dominic smirked. He snapped his fingers in my direction without looking at me. “Waitress. Cut his steak. The boy’s staring at it like it’s a foreign object.”
I rose smoothly from my chair, picking up the silver steak knife and fork.
As I leaned across the table toward Caleb’s plate, his eyes flicked upward for a fraction of a second.
*Now,* his eyes signaled.
Caleb suddenly jerked backward.
With a violent, erratic sweep of his arm, he struck the massive five-tier champagne tower sitting on the adjacent display table.
The crash was deafening.
Dozens of crystal flutes shattered across the polished parquet floor in an explosion of sparkling wine, flying glass, and panicked screams. High-society women shrieked, backing away to protect their silk dresses.
“What the hell!” Dominic roared, dropping his glass. “Vincenzo! Grab him!”
Caleb surged to his feet, thrashing wildly, knocking over his heavy wooden chair and sending silver platters crashing into the center of the table. He let out a strangled, incoherent cry, flailing his arms as if gripped by terrifying hallucinations.
Vincenzo and two armed guards lunged forward, throwing their full weight against Caleb, wrestling him down toward the carpet.
In the ensuing chaos, the crowd surged backward in panic.
Judge Julian Vance stumbled away from the spraying champagne, his foot catching on the hem of a tablecloth. He lost his balance, pitching sideways toward the service aisle.
I moved with total instinct.
I lunged forward, throwing my body between Vance and the shattered glass on the floor, catching the heavy older man beneath the armpits to break his fall.
“Oh! Excuse me! I’m so sorry, Your Honor!” I cried out, my voice trembling with theatrical panic as we both stumbled against a marble pillar.
“Get off me, girl!” Vance snarled, pushing me away with disgust.
“I'm sorry, I'm so clumsy, please forgive me—!” I babbled, using both hands to smooth down his lapels in a frantic show of apologetic deference.
My right index finger flicked inward beneath his silk pocket flap.
The adhesive backing of the micro-skimmer adhered instantly to the titanium casing of his hardware wallet.
*Click.*
A nearly imperceptible blue light pulsed once beneath the fabric of his pocket, completely invisible to the naked eye. The transfer had begun.
Vance shoved my hands away roughly. “Keep your filthy hands off my suit! Dominic, control your goddamn circus!”
Across the room, Caleb was pinned to the floor by Vincenzo and another bodyguard. His cheek was pressed hard against the champagne-soaked carpet, his hands held behind his back.
Dominic stood over his son, his face purple with absolute, murderous rage.
He looked around at the staring, whispering crowd of Chicago’s most powerful elite. The humiliation in the room was palpable.
Dominic turned his glare toward me, and in that moment, the mask of the sophisticated businessman slipped away completely. Behind his eyes stood the butcher of Cicero—a monster who had murdered his own wife and ruled the city with blood.
“Get him out of here,” Dominic said, his voice dropping to a deadly, gravelly whisper that cut through the silence of the ballroom. “Take them both to the warehouse at the docks. Now.”
Vincenzo yanked Caleb up by his collar, dragging him toward the private service exit.
My heart plummeted into a pit of black ice.
The docks.
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The transfer wasn't finished. And we weren't going back to Oak Brook.
***