Chapter 6 - The Commission's Council
The Grand Palmer Hotel on Michigan Avenue was an architectural relic of old Chicago—soaring gilded ceilings, heavy crystal chandeliers, and walls lined with mahogany that had absorbed the whispers of politicians, bankers, and mobsters for over a century.
Tonight, the entire top floor had been cleared.
At the end of a forty-foot banquet table sat the five heads of the Chicago Outfit—the Commission. These were old men with weathered faces and diamond signet rings, men who controlled the docks, the unions, the waste management contracts, and the judges.
At the far end of the table sat Victor Kane. He wore a double-breasted charcoal suit, his silver hair slicked back, a sneer plastered across his thin lips. Across the table, Dante Moretti sat in solitary, imposing silence, his coat draped over his broad shoulders, Gordon standing like a sentinel two paces behind his chair.
"This is madness, Dante," spoke Salvatore Marcone, the seventy-two-year-old chairman of the Commission, tapping his cigar against an crystal ashtray. "You shut down three freight terminals on the south side. You intercepted two of Victor's supply convoys in Indiana. You put fifty of his men in the hospital. The streets are crawling with federal agents because of this noise."
"Victor sent six armed mercenaries into my private residence," Dante replied, his voice calm, smooth, and chillingly devoid of emotion. "He brought automatic weapons to the home where my family sleeps."
"Family?" Kane barked a sharp, mocking laugh. "Don't play the saint with us, Moretti! You're protecting a maid! An accountant’s widow who stole private corporate data that belongs to my organization!"
"Marcus Carter was an employee of the Moretti Logistics Corporation," Dante countered, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the polished mahogany table. "He answered to me. Not to you, Kane. And the data he collected wasn't yours—it was a record of your systematic skimming from Commission-approved supply lines."
The room temperature dropped ten degrees.
Salvatore Marcone froze, his cigar halfway to his mouth. The other three bosses—men who cared nothing for loyalty, but everything for their bottom lines—slowly turned their cold eyes toward Victor Kane.
"What did you say, Dante?" Marcone asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous rumble.
Dante gestured to Gordon. Gordon opened a black leather briefcase and slid four thick, bound dossiers across the table, one to each of the sitting bosses.
"Marcus Carter was a genius with forensic accounting," Dante explained, his gaze never leaving Kane’s increasingly pale face. "Before Kane had him murdered on the Dan Ryan Expressway, Marcus mapped out six offshore shadow accounts. For the past three years, Kane has been charging the Commission an eight-percent transport fee on all narcotics and weapons moving through the Indiana corridor. But the actual shipping logs—the real ones, verified by Marcus's digital stamps—show Kane was pocketing five percent of that cut for himself."
Marcone opened the dossier. His eyes scanned the bank routing numbers, the date-stamped manifests, and the transfer receipts bearing Victor Kane's personal offshore signatures.
"Two hundred and forty million dollars," Marcone read aloud, his voice trembling with barely suppressed fury. "Stolen from the collective treasury."
The other bosses slammed their folders shut. The air in the room became lethal.
Kane jumped to his feet, knocking his heavy armchair backward. "It’s a forgery! Moretti fabricated those documents to justify his attack! He used his own brother to frame me!"
"My brother is currently locked in my cellar, awaiting judgment," Dante said coldly, remaining seated. "He will answer for his weakness. But Luke’s sin was love, Kane. Yours was greed. You used a woman held in a fake medical clinic to coerce my blood, and you murdered an innocent man who discovered you were robbing the very table you eat from."
Marcone stood up. The old man was frail, but the power he wielded could crush a man before sunrise.
"Victor," Marcone whispered, looking at Kane with pure disgust. "You broke the first rule of this table. You stole from your brothers, and you brought the war to our doorsteps."
"Salvatore, listen to me—" Kane pleaded, backing away toward the heavy double doors where his two bodyguards stood.
"The Commission withdraws its protection," Marcone declared, turning his back on Kane. "As of this moment, Victor Kane is declared *persona non grata*. His territories are forfeited. His assets are frozen."
Marcone looked down the table at Dante. "Do what needs to be done, Moretti. Clean your city."
Kane realized the trap had snapped shut. His face twisted into a mask of feral, desperate hatred. He reached into his jacket, his hand moving toward his concealed weapon, but Gordon was faster. Gordon’s suppressed pistol cleared his holster in a fluid motion, firing a single round that shattered the marble molding two inches from Kane’s ear.
"Make another move, Victor," Gordon rasped, "and you don't even make it to the elevator."
Kane lowered his hand, his chest heaving. He stared at Dante with poisonous venom. "You think you've won, Dante? You think a few sheets of paper will save that girl? I have twenty men surrounding your estate right now. If I don't check in every thirty minutes, they have orders to burn the whole damn place to ash."
Dante slowly rose to his feet. He towered over the table, his eyes burning with an unholy, terrifying calm.
"Your twenty men were neutralized twenty minutes ago, Victor," Dante said softly. "Nick Romano took the west gate. Gordon’s team swept the tree line. And right now, Rex is having a very pleasant evening patrolling the lawn."
Kane’s jaw dropped. The realization that he had been completely outmaneuvered, outgunned, and stripped of all leverage hit him like a physical blow.
"Run, Victor," Dante whispered, stepping around the table toward him. "Take whatever cash you have left in your trunk. Call whatever rats you have left in the sewers. Because the sun is going down, and when it rises again, you will not be breathing Chicago air."
Kane turned and bolted through the double doors, his bodyguards trailing frantically behind him.
Marcone sighed, sinking back into his chair, waving his hand toward Dante. "Go finish it, Dante. But remember—when this blood is washed away, you have a family to build. Don't die in the gutter like your father did."
Dante adjusted his cuffs, his mind already three steps ahead, fixed entirely on the safety of the woman and the little girl waiting for him behind the steel gates of the Moretti estate.
May you like
"I have no intention of dying, Salvatore," Dante replied. "I have a promise to keep."
***