Chapter 3 - The Cold War Begins
The revelation struck the room like a physical blow. The Falcone family was the largest, most ruthless syndicate on the East Coast. For years, Vincent had maintained a fragile peace with them, keeping them out of the Midwest through sheer intimidation and flawless operational security.
But Vanessa had opened the gates from the inside.
"How much did she sign over?" Vincent demanded, sitting up fully now. The adrenaline had completely conquered the remaining traces of the toxin. The tiger was fully awake.
"The docks at the Port of Chicago, the trucking terminals in Cicero, and three of our primary shell companies," Marco said, reading from a decrypted ledger page he had brought up from the office. "They’ve already got trucks moving across the Indiana border. They thought you’d be dead by sunrise, Vincent. The moment your heart stopped, the power of attorney would have transferred the remaining assets to her, and she would have merged them with the Falcone board."
Vincent laughed, a dark, terrible sound that made Elena take a step back, pulling Lily closer to her side. "She almost had it. A perfect execution. No blood, no messy hits. Just a sick man dying of a mysterious heart failure in his bed."
He looked toward the window. The rain was pounding harder now, a summer storm lashing the Gold Coast. He knew what he had to do. He couldn't afford to be sick anymore.
"Marco, get the captains here. Every single one of them. Bring them to the underground boardroom in twenty minutes. Anyone who is late gets a bullet."
"On it," Marco said, turning on his heel.
"And Marco," Vincent added. "Call Dominic. Tell him to bring the heavy armaments up from the south-side warehouse. We’re going to war."
As Marco disappeared, Vincent looked back at Elena and Lily. The fierce, terrifying aura of the mafia Don evaporated for a moment, replaced by the desperate concern of a father who had just found his child.
"Elena, take Lily to the third floor. The master suite next to mine. It has reinforced steel doors and bulletproof glass. I’m putting two of my personal details outside the door. You stay there. No matter what you hear downstairs, do not open that door unless it’s me or Marco."
Elena looked at the luxury around her, then at the man she had once known as a lonely stranger in a dark bar. "Vincent... is she safe here?"
Vincent walked over to them, his steps still slightly uneven but gaining strength with every second. He knelt down so he was eye-level with Lily. He reached out and gently adjusted her Cubs cap.
"Nobody touches a hair on her head," Vincent said, his voice thick with a solemn promise. "I will burn this entire city to the ground before I let anyone hurt her. Do you believe me, Lily?"
Lily looked into his eyes—the same dark, unyielding eyes she saw in her own mirror every morning. She nodded. "I believe you."
"Good. Go with your mom."
Once Elena and Lily were safely escorted upstairs by two heavily armed guards, Vincent stripped off his navy robe and his sweat-soaked clothes. He walked into his massive marble bathroom, turned the shower to a freezing cold temperature, and stood beneath the spray. He needed the physical chill to match the mental ice he required for the coming hours.
Ten minutes later, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark silk tie, Vincent Moretti walked down the grand staircase of his mansion. He looked like a man who had never spent a single day in a hospital bed.
The underground boardroom was located beneath the mansion's massive garage, accessible only via a hidden elevator behind a false wall. When Vincent walked in, his six top captains were already seated around the long oak table. The air was thick with cigar smoke and nervous tension.
When they saw Vincent walk in—standing straight, broad-shouldered, and looking entirely lethal—several of them gasped. The rumors had been circulating for weeks that the Boss was on his deathbed, unable to even hold a pen.
"Sit," Vincent commanded as he took his place at the head of the table.
He threw the silver tin containing the amber poison bottle onto the center of the table. It slid across the wood, clinking against an crystal ashtray.
"For the last three months, I’ve been poisoned," Vincent announced, his voice slicing through the smoke. "By Vanessa Vale. Acting on behalf of the Falcone family."
A collective murmur of outrage broke out among the captains.
"That treacherous bitch," muttered Jimmy 'The Blade' Caruso, the captain of the North Side operations. "We should skin her alive."
"She’s currently in the cellar," Vincent said coldly. "But she’s the least of our problems. Right now, Falcone trucks are crossing into our territory. They think Chicago is leaderless. They think they’re walking into a vacuum."
Vincent leaned forward, slamming his palms flat against the table.
"We are going to show them that Chicago belongs to the Moretti family. Every route they took, we take back tonight. Every soldier they sent across the border stays in a ditch in Indiana. I want a total lockdown of the city."
Before the captains could cheer, the phone on the center of the table rang. It was an encrypted satellite line—a number known only to three people in the world.
Vincent picked it up, pressing the speaker button.
"Moretti," a smooth, older voice echoed through the boardroom. It was Carmine Falcone, the head of the New York syndicate.
"Vincent," Carmine said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "I was told you were incapacitated. I called to offer my condolences to your beautiful fiancée."
"Your condolences are premature, Carmine," Vincent said, his voice deadly smooth. "And your fiancée is currently sitting in a damp cellar with a broken nose."
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. The smooth, arrogant confidence of the New York Don vanished instantly.
"You’re alive," Carmine muttered, his voice dropping into a snarl.
"I’m alive, Carmine. And I’m standing in my boardroom looking at the ledger of everything you tried to steal from me. You have exactly two hours to pull every single one of your men out of Illinois. If I see a single New York license plate near my docks by 4:00 a.m., I’m sending your son’s head back to Manhattan in a cooler."
Carmine let out a low, venomous laugh. "You think you’re in a position to threaten me, Vincent? Look out your window. Your empire is already hollowed out. We own your captains. We own your streets."
Vincent’s eyes darted across the table. He caught the slight, nervous twitch in Jimmy 'The Blade' Caruso’s hand as he reached for his cigar.
Vincent didn't blink. He raised his right hand, pointing a single finger directly at Jimmy.
Before anyone could react, Marco, standing behind Jimmy, drew his weapon and fired a single, silenced round directly into the back of the captain’s head. Jimmy collapsed onto the table, his cigar rolling into a pool of dark blood.
The other captains leaped out of their chairs, drawing their weapons, but Vincent’s personal guard already had them covered.
"I know exactly who owns what, Carmine," Vincent said into the phone, his voice completely unbothered by the execution that had just occurred in front of him. "And my house is officially clean. Two hours, Carmine. The clock is ticking."
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Vincent slammed the phone down, breaking the connection. He looked up at the remaining five captains, who were staring at him with absolute, terrified reverence.
"Now," Vincent said, straightening his cuffs. "Let’s go to work."
