Chapter 25 - The Fractured Syndicate
The blast at the Chicago River sent shockwaves through the upper echelons of the city’s shadow government.
By two o'clock that afternoon, an emergency tribunal had been convened at the historic Union League Club. It was neutral ground, an opulent sanctuary where the remaining bosses of the Midwest Syndicate had gathered to confront Orson Thorne.
I stood beside Orson at the head of the oak boardroom table. His custom three-piece charcoal suit hid the silver veins crawling up his neck, but his right hand remained bare—gleaming with polished titanium and dark, luminescent alloy. The sheer sight of it made the older dons sweat through their silk collars.
"You brought a private military force into downtown, Thorne!" shouted Don Moretti, the aging boss of the Detroit corridor, slamming a heavy fist on the mahogany table. "The FBI is setting up mobile command centers at O'Hare! The Mayor has called in the National Guard! You promised us stability after the Castiglione purge, and now there are rumors of sorcery and ghost ships in the harbor!"
"The National Guard is under the command of men who answer to the Silver Dawn," Orson said, his tone icy and deadpan. He didn't blink. He didn't raise his voice. His calm was far more terrifying than their screaming. "The FBI will find nothing because my men have already scrubbed the riverwalk. As for sorcery..."
Orson slowly placed his right hand flat against the center of the three-hundred-year-old oak table.
A low, resonant hum vibrated through the wood. The crystal tumblers filled with twenty-year-old scotch began to slide across the polished surface, drawn toward his palm like iron shavings to a magnet.
"This is not sorcery, Moretti," Orson said softly. "This is ownership. For ninety years, your families took cuts from my grandfather’s grandfather. You grew fat off the ports we guarded, the tunnels we built, and the blood we spilled to keep the old world from swallowing this continent whole."
Moretti swallowed hard, his skin turning gray. Two capos sitting behind him reached discreetly inside their suits for their pistols.
"Don't," I warned, stepping forward. I placed a leather-bound folio on the table, opening it to reveal photographic proof of bank transfers from Zurich numbered accounts directly into Moretti's personal offshore holdings. "We know who funded Dante’s initial hit on Orson nine years ago. We know which of you sold your souls to the Silver Dawn for a share of the Vault's riches."
The room plunged into breathless silence.
"You sold out Chicago," I said, looking every boss dead in the eye. "You thought the Silver Dawn would wipe out the Thornes and hand you the keys to the kingdom. But they don't share power with vermin. Once the Vault beneath Lake Michigan is opened, their first act will be to sterilize this entire coastline. None of you survive their new world."
"Is this true, Orson?" whispered Don Bellini, the eldest capo from Kansas City. "The ancient Vault? It wasn't just a bedtime story the Sicilian elders told to keep us humble?"
"It is real," Orson said, leaning forward. His amber eyes locked onto Moretti. "And tonight, I am going down into the drowned cathedral to seal it forever. You have two choices, gentlemen. You can gather your soldiers and hold the perimeter of this city against the Dawn’s reinforcements while I finish this... or I can execute every traitor at this table right now and leave Chicago to burn."
Moretti broke first. He dropped to his knees, his hands trembling against the floorboards.
"What do you need, Don Thorne?" Moretti rasped, utterly broken.
May you like
"Every gun you have," Orson commanded, standing tall like an emperor preparing for an apocalyptic campaign. "Surround the lakefront. Shoot anything that wears white or speaks with a Swiss accent. And pray to whatever god you believe in that Rosie and I come back up."
***