Chapter 4 - The Harbor SyndicateBy seven o'clock that evening, the storm over Lake Michigan had rolled into the city, drenching the Chicago skyline in heavy rain and fog.
Inside the penthouse suite of the Drake Hotel, three men sat around a glass conference table overlooking the stormy lake.
At the head of the table sat Anthony Moretti—the head of the Boston syndicate that had been trying to break into Chicago’s shipping routes for a decade. Beside him sat his legal counsel and two heavy-set enforcement operatives.
On the table lay the final closing contracts for the transfer of the South Chicago Harbor Terminals—a deal worth three hundred million dollars, being bought for a fraction of its true value thanks to Julian Vance’s illegal proxy.
The door to the penthouse suite opened.
Anthony Moretti didn't look up from his glass of scotch. “Did Julian bring the original seals? I told him I’m not signing a copy.”
“Julian couldn't make it tonight, Anthony,” a voice called out from the foyer.
Moretti froze. The scotch glass stopped halfway to his lips.
Dominic Faust walked smoothly into the penthouse suite.
He was wearing a dark trench coat over a sharp black suit, his gray eyes blazing with absolute authority. Beside him walked Sarah Miller and two armed security guards. And standing right behind Dominic, dressed in a sleek black suit instead of her cleaning apron, was me.
Moretti’s two enforcement operatives instantly reached inside their jackets for their weapons.
“I wouldn't do that,” Sarah Miller warned calmly, holding up a small black detonator device. “We’ve jammed all cellular and radio frequencies within three floors of this suite. And my team downstairs has already neutralized your perimeter guards.”
Moretti set his glass down slowly, his face hardening into a mask of pure fury. “Faust. What the hell is this? Word on the street was you were lying in a bed in Evanston, drooling into a pillow.”
“Word on the street was wrong, Anthony,” Dominic said, stepping up to the conference table. He picked up the closing contracts, glanced at them briefly, and ripped them in half with a single, effortless motion.
He tossed the torn papers onto the glass table.
“Julian Vance is currently sitting in a holding cell at the 1st District police station,” Dominic announced. “Along with Dr. Sterling and Marcus Vance. The District Attorney has already unsealed indictments for corporate fraud, bribery, and conspiracy.”
Moretti gasped softly, his eyes darting frantically toward his lawyer. “Julian had full proxy power! We executed a legal purchase agreement!”
“Julian executed an illegal agreement using forged documents while subjecting me to military-grade psychological torture,” Dominic corrected him, leaning over the table, his palms flat on the glass. “Which means every asset, every account, and every shell company you used to finance this deal is now tied to a federal racketeering investigation.”
Moretti stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the marble floor. “You think you can just walk into my suite and threaten me, Faust? This is my deal! I spent twenty million dollars bribing city officials to clear those dock permits!”
“And those city officials are being arrested as we speak,” I spoke up, stepping forward and placing a thick manila folder on the table.
Moretti glared at me in disgust. “Who the hell is this girl?”
“This 'girl' is the person who uncovered your little infrasound operation,” Dominic said, his voice echoing with fierce pride. “And inside that folder is the digital audit trail showing that the twenty million dollars you used to bribe those officials was routed through a bank account registered in your wife’s name in the Cayman Islands.”
Moretti’s jaw dropped. He stared at the folder, then looked up at Dominic in sheer terror.
“You have ten minutes to get on your private jet and go back to Boston, Anthony,” Dominic whispered, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. “If you are still in Chicago when the sun comes up tomorrow, I won't send the police. I’ll handle you myself.”
Moretti didn't say a word. He looked at the torn contracts, looked at his terrified lawyer, and slowly stepped back from the table.
“Let’s go,” Moretti barked to his men, grabbing his coat and rushing toward the suite’s private elevator.
As the elevator doors closed behind them, the penthouse suite went dead silent.
Dominic walked over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window, looking out over the rain-slicked city of Chicago. The lights of the skyscrapers reflected off the wet glass, painting him in shades of gold and blue.
He took a deep, clear breath—the breath of a man who had finally reclaimed his throne.
He turned around to look at me.
“Tess,” he said softly.
May you like
“Yes, Mr. Faust?”
“Call me Dominic,” he said, a small, genuine smile finally breaking across his handsome face. “And tell me... how would you feel about becoming the permanent Director of Operations for Faust Enterprises?”
