Chapter 5 - The Council of Wolves
While we navigated the lightless subterranean arteries beneath downtown Chicago, three miles away in the penthouse suite of the Drake Hotel, the Syndicate Council had convened.
The room smelled of Cuban cigar smoke, aged scotch, and naked greed.
Around the oval rosewood table sat five men: the heads of Chicago’s organized crime families. At the head of the table sat Dante Moretti, a silver-haired septuagenarian with eyes as cold as a frozen lake.
The double mahogany doors swung open.
Kellen Price walked in, his nose crudely set with white medical splints, his trench coat damp with rain. He was flanked by four heavily armed mercenaries.
"Where is Dramore?" Dante Moretti asked without looking up from his glass.
"Dead in the sewer, or bleeding out in an alley," Kellen lied smoothly. "His warehouse safehouse was destroyed. We have teams combing the drainage exits."
A murmur rippled through the older capos.
"You promised us a clean transition, Price," spoke Marcus Chen, ruler of the South Side shipping yards. "Orson Dramore has controlled the port authority and the council's treasury for over a decade. If he survives tonight, he will burn this city to ash, and every one of us with it."
"He won't survive," Kellen snarled, slamming his gloved palms onto the table. "The *Crying Viper* in his wrist did its job. Even if he survived the blast, the core fractured during the fight. The thallium is flooding his bloodstream right now. He’s a dead man walking."
Dante Moretti slowly raised his head. His eyes narrowed.
"And what about Peter Fenomore's granddaughter?"
Kellen stiffened. "How do you know about the girl?"
Dante leaned back, taking a slow puff of his cigar.
"Because nine years ago, Kellen, you were just a dog I gave a bone to. You think you masterminded the hit on Orson? You think you found Fenomore’s workshop on your own?"
Dante chuckled, a dry, rattling sound.
"I commissioned those bullets. Peter Fenomore was an artist, but he had a conscience. He tried to hide the casting molds. I had to threaten to put his sixteen-year-old granddaughter into an incinerator just to make him carve the poison cavities."
Kellen’s face went slightly pale. "The girl saw the maker's mark. She told Dramore."
"Then she is the only person alive who can tie the hit to my signature," Dante said, his voice dropping into a chilling whisper. "If the Council finds out I broke the 1995 Peace Accord to cripple Orson, they will vote to strip my family of every dock, every casino, and every block of real estate we own."
Dante pointed his cigar at Kellen’s chest.
"Find the girl. Bring me her head. Bring me her grandfather's ledger from that dusty little shop on 24th Street before Orson finds the strength to drag himself there. If you fail, Price... I will personally introduce you to the same poison."
Kellen swallowed hard, bowed his head, and backed out of the room.
***
Beneath the city, the air was growing thinner.
Orson was leaning heavily on me now. His fever had spiked dangerously; his skin burned through the soaked fabric of his shirt. Every few steps, his knees buckled, but he refused to stop.
"Rosie," he whispered, his speech slurring slightly. "If I go down... you don't stay. You hear me? You take the tunnel west toward the river. There's a maintenance ladder that comes up near the railway depot."
"Shut up, Orson," I snapped, tightening my arm around his waist, struggling under his immense weight. "You're a terrifying Mafia boss, remember? You don't get to die in a sewer because of a piece of scrap metal."
He let out a weak, raspy chuckle against my hair.
"You're very bossy... for a jeweler."
"And you're very heavy for a ghost. Keep moving your feet."
We rounded a bend in the brick tunnel. Up ahead, a faint shaft of yellowish light fell through an iron maintenance hatch. Below it sat a wooden door set into the foundation of a 19th-century commercial building.
On the door was painted a tiny, faded red cross.
"Julian," Orson breathed. "We made it."
I pounded on the thick oak door with the butt of the nickel-plated revolver.
"Help! Please! Dr. Vance!"
For a terrifying minute, there was nothing. Then, the heavy scrape of a deadbolt sliding back echoed through the damp tunnel.
The door opened an inch. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles glinted in the gloom.
"The clinic is closed," an elderly, sharp voice hissed. "Get out before I—"
"Julian," Orson groaned, lifting his head.
The door swung fully open. A frail, bald man with rolled-up sleeves and ink-stained forearms looked at Orson’s gray, sweating face, then at the black leather glove clutched in my pocket.
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"Merciful God," Dr. Vance whispered, stepping aside. "Get him inside before the rats smell the blood."
***