Chapter 3 - The Gathering of VulturesBy seven-thirty that evening, the snow outside had turned into a full-blown blizzard, burying the streets of Chicago under six inches of white powder.
Inside the main dining room of my penthouse, the atmosphere was dark, formal, and heavy with unspoken violence.
The long, polished mahogany table was set for eight. Fine porcelain plates, heavy silver cutlery, and crystal wine glasses gleamed under the amber light of a grand chandelier. Standing against the walls, hidden in the dim shadows, were six of my most trusted enforcers, all wearing dark suits, their hands folded neatly in front of them, their eyes fixed on the heavy double entrance doors.
Viktor walked into the dining room, holding a silver tray with a bottle of rare Italian Barolo.
“Moretti’s convoy just entered the underground garage,” Viktor reported low. “He brought twelve armed men with him. Frank is disarming eight of them in the lobby per house rules, but Moretti is insisting on bringing four of his top lieutenants up in the private elevator.”
“Let them bring four,” I said calmly, sitting at the head of the table, cutting a piece of rare steak on my plate. “Let them bring whoever they want. It won't change the outcome of tonight.”
Five minutes later, the private elevator chimed with a soft, pleasant tone.
The heavy doors slid open, and Dominic Moretti stepped out onto the marble foyer.
He was fifty years old, thick-necked, wearing a flashy thousand-dollar silk suit, a gold Rolex on his wrist, and a slicked-back pompadour of black hair. He walked with the arrogant, chest-out swagger of a man who believed he had outsmarted everyone in the room. Behind him stepped four heavily built syndicate soldiers, their leather jackets bulging slightly near their armpits.
“Mason!” Dominic boomed, his loud, grating voice filling the high-ceilinged room. “Look at this place! The king in his castle! We missed you at the Commission meeting, brother! The boys were starting to think you were getting soft up here in your glass tower!”
I didn't stand up. I didn't smile. I slowly set my silver fork and knife down on my plate, wiping my mouth with a linen napkin.
“Sit down, Dominic,” I said, gesturing to the chair at the opposite end of the long table.
Dominic’s laughter faltered slightly at my icy tone, his sharp dark eyes flicking around the room, taking in the presence of my armed men standing in the shadows. He pulled out the chair at the far end and sat down, while his four bodyguards took up positions behind him.
“What’s with the heavy security, Mason?” Dominic chuckled nervously, pouring himself a glass of Barolo from the bottle on the table. “We’ve known each other fifteen years. We built the West Side together. You act like I’m an enemy.”
“Are you an enemy, Dominic?” I asked quietly.
Dominic took a long sip of the wine, smacking his lips with exaggerated satisfaction. “Of course not! We’re family! That’s why I came here tonight. The Commission wants to re-route the chemical shipments through the South Side docks. I told them you’d sign off on it. We just need your thumbprint on the agreement, and everybody gets rich.”
He pulled a thick leather folder from his jacket and slid it across the long mahogany table toward me.
I didn't look at the folder. I kept my eyes fixed entirely on Dominic’s face.
“Tell me, Dominic,” I said softly, my voice carrying across the quiet room like a slow-burning fuse. “Do you remember a girl named Taryn?”
Dominic’s hand froze mid-air as he reached for his wine glass.
For a fraction of a second, a look of pure, unadulterated panic flashed across his eyes, before he quickly swallowed it down, forcing a confused chuckle.
“Taryn?” Dominic echoed, waving his hand dismissively. “Who... that girl from the Lincoln Park apartment seven years ago? Man, that’s ancient history, Mason! Why are you bringing up some old ghost from your younger days?”
“She wasn't an old ghost, Dominic,” I said, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the dark wood of the table. “She was the love of my life. And the two million dollars I left in her trust fund was meant to ensure she never suffered a single day in her life.”
Dominic swallowed hard, his skin suddenly taking on a pale, greasy sheen under the chandelier lights. “Mason... look, I don't know what you’ve heard—”
“I saw her today, Dominic,” I interrupted, my tone dropping an octave, becoming so thick with cold rage that even his bodyguards shifted uncomfortably behind his chair. “I found her sitting on Michigan Avenue in six-degree weather. She was begging for change. She was wearing a coat with holes in it. And beside her were three children.”
The room went dead silent. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Dominic’s jaw worked silently, his mind racing at lightspeed, trying to calculate a way out of the corner he had just been backed into.
“Mason...” Dominic stammered, his arrogant posture completely crumbling. “Listen to me... you don't understand the whole story! Back then, when you left for the High Council, the syndicate was bleeding cash! We were in debt to the Miami families! I thought... I thought she was just some girl taking your money! I didn't know about any kids, I swear to God I didn't know about any kids!”
“You threatened to put a bullet in my six-year-old daughter’s head,” I said, every word delivered like a heavy iron weight.
Dominic’s eyes went wide with terror. He instinctively reached toward his inner coat pocket.
Before his hand could even touch his lapel, Viktor moved like a ghost.
A silent, heavy crack echoed through the room. Dominic’s lead bodyguard collapsed to the marble floor with a heavy thud, a single red hole blooming in the center of his forehead. The remaining three bodyguards raised their hands instantly, staring into the barrels of six suppressed submachine guns aimed directly at their heads by my men in the shadows.
Dominic fell backward out of his chair, scrambling across the floor like a terrified crab until his back hit the cold glass of the balcony door.
“Mason! Please!” Dominic screamed, his hands raised in desperate surrender, tears of pure terror pouring down his greasy cheeks. “We were brothers! I’ll give it all back! I’ll give you everything I own! My properties, my docks, my accounts in the Caymans! Millions of dollars, Mason! Just name your price!”
I stood up slowly from the head of the table.
I walked down the length of the long mahogany room, my expensive leather shoes clicking softly against the floorboards. I stopped right above Dominic, looking down at him as if he were nothing more than a cockroach crawling across my floor.
“You stole seven years of my children’s lives, Dominic,” I whispered, pulling a sleek, dark steel pistol from my custom holster. “You made my son sleep on concrete. You made my daughter freeze in the snow.”
I leveled the barrel directly between his eyes.
“There isn't enough money in the world to buy what you took from me,” I said.
“Mason—!” Dominic shrieked.
THUD.
The sound of the suppressed gunshot was soft, barely louder than a closing book.
Dominic’s body went limp against the bulletproof glass, his eyes staring blankly up at the crystal chandelier.
I lowered the weapon, turning my back on the body, looking at his three trembling surviving henchmen standing against the wall.
“Clean this room,” I instructed Viktor coldly. “Take his territory. Seize every asset under the Moretti name by midnight. If anyone in the syndicate objects, tell them they can join him.”
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“Consider it done, Boss,” Viktor replied smoothly.
I walked out of the dining room, stepping back into the quiet, warm hallway leading toward the master suite, where the only four people in the world who mattered were finally sleeping in peace.
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