Chapter 8 - THE ASHES
By dawn, Chicago was burning. Not literally, but the underworld was in chaos.
The news of the massacre at The Blackstone Room spread faster than the morning papers could print it. Whispers filled the back alleys and precinct holding cells. Vincent DeLuca had been hit. His fiancée had vanished. His right-hand man, Sal, was found in a basement with a shattered jaw. The restaurant manager, Harlan, was dead at the docks.
The syndicate was scrambling to seize Vincent’s territory. They assumed he was dead, or at least running for his life.
They were wrong.
At 7:00 AM, Vincent walked into the grand ballroom of the Rossi family’s private country club. He didn't sneak in. He walked right through the front doors.
The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut behind him.
Don Rossi, an elderly, ruthless man with cold dead eyes, sat at the head of a long breakfast table. A dozen heavily armed guards immediately raised their weapons at Vincent.
Vincent didn't flinch. He looked exhausted. His suit was ruined. His face was bruised. But he walked forward with the absolute authority of a king entering his own throne room.
"DeLuca," Rossi croaked, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "You have incredible nerve walking in here. Half this city is looking for your head."
"Harlan is dead," Vincent said simply, tossing Harlan’s gold money clip onto the breakfast table. It clattered loudly against the china.
Rossi stared at the clip. His eyes narrowed.
"He confessed before he died, Rossi," Vincent lied smoothly. "He told me you backed him. He told me you helped him manipulate my fiancée into starting a war."
"A desperate man will say anything to save his life," Rossi scoffed, but a bead of sweat formed on his forehead.
"Maybe," Vincent said, pulling a leather-bound book from inside his coat. The ledger. The one Vivienne had tried to steal. "But this doesn't lie. Harlan kept meticulous records of every bribe, every hit, every offshore account. Including the money he funneled to you to bypass the Commission."
The guards in the room shifted uncomfortably.
Rossi’s face turned purple. "You wouldn't dare take that to the Commission. They'd kill us both."
"I don't care about the Commission," Vincent said, dropping the ledger onto the table. "I'm out, Rossi. As of this morning, the DeLuca family no longer exists."
Rossi blinked, stunned. "You're... stepping down? Walking away? From all this?"
"I’m leaving the city," Vincent said. "The ledger is yours. The territory is yours. You can tell the Commission you drove me out. You get all the glory."
Rossi eyed the ledger hungrily. "And in exchange?"
"You leave me alone," Vincent said softly. "You leave Vivienne alone, wherever she is. And you make sure nobody ever goes looking for a waitress and her ten-year-old son."
Rossi let out a dry, hacking laugh. "A waitress? All this blood, all this chaos, and you're making deals to protect a kid who brought you water?"
"Yes or no, Rossi."
Rossi looked at the ledger. It was the key to owning Chicago. He smiled greedily.
"You have my word, DeLuca. You're a ghost. We will never cross paths again."
Vincent nodded. He turned and walked out of the ballroom, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor.
He stepped out into the crisp morning air. The rain had stopped. The sun was just beginning to break through the gray Chicago clouds.
For the first time in twenty years, Vincent DeLuca didn't have to look over his shoulder. He checked his pockets. He had a passport, a set of car keys, and nothing else.
May you like
He walked to a modest, unmarked car parked by the gates, started the engine, and drove north.
The city skyline faded in his rearview mirror.
