Chapter 7 - The Meeting at the Riverfront
By Tuesday afternoon, Liam had dropped the children off with a trusted, thoroughly vetted family friend and driven into downtown Chicago to meet Marcus at a private glass-walled office overlooking the Chicago River.
Marcus was already standing by the window, swirling a cup of black coffee, reviewing a fresh stack of architectural blueprints.
“You look like a man who just won a multi-front war,” Marcus noted without turning around, hearing the heavy click of Liam’s loafers on the hardwood floor.
“I feel like a man who spent the last week dodging a falling piano,” Liam replied, walking over to the glass partition and looking out at the glittering skyline. “Who was the car parked down my street yesterday?”
Marcus paused, his coffee cup freezing halfway to his mouth. He set the cup down slowly and turned to face his younger brother, his expression turning grave.
“I was hoping we wouldn't have to talk about that until next week,” Marcus said quietly. “That wasn't one of Donald DeLuca’s men, Liam. Donald was a minor-league player compared to the syndicate that backed his commercial contracts in the outer boroughs.”
Liam’s jaw tightened. “Go on.”
“When DeLuca’s shipping and waste management companies were seized by federal marshals, they uncovered a hidden ledger,” Marcus explained, pulling a digital tablet from his desk and tapping the screen. “It turns out DeLuca wasn't just laundering money for his own family trust. He was paying protection and revenue-sharing fees to the Outfit—specifically, a faction controlled by a man named Viktor Petrov.”
The name sent a cold shiver down Liam’s spine. Viktor Petrov was a ghost who operated in the darker corners of Chicago’s industrial sector—a man whose reach extended into municipal zoning, port authorities, and organized crime syndicates across the entire Midwest.
“Petrov doesn't care about Vanessa’s domestic drama,” Marcus continued grimly. “And he doesn't care that Donald is facing twenty years in a federal penitentiary. What Petrov cares about is that the sudden federal raid on DeLuca Enterprises exposed an illicit cargo staging warehouse located right next to one of your upcoming architectural project sites on the South Side.”
Liam stared at his brother. “The Miller Street commercial complex? That’s our flagship municipal bid for the city council.”
“It’s more than a municipal bid, Liam,” Marcus said, lowering his voice. “That warehouse is where Petrov routes unregistered industrial machinery, contraband, and undocumented labor. Because your firm is the primary contractor on that project, federal investigators are now looking at your architectural site maps to see if you approved the structural modifications connecting your basement blueprints to their underground tunnels.”
Liam slammed his hand against the glass partition, the muffled sound echoing through the empty office. “I didn't know anything about underground tunnels! We were hired to design a modern commercial pavilion!”
“I know that, and you know that, but Viktor Petrov doesn't care about bureaucratic misunderstandings,” Marcus said sharply. “To Petrov, you’re the loose end that brought federal heat down on his multi-million-dollar operation. He thinks you used your wife’s family to dig into his business.”
Liam exhaled a long, measured breath, forcing his panic down into cold, calculated focus. He had spent the last week fighting for his children’s safety against a spoiled socialite and her arrogant father. Now, he was standing in the crosshairs of a Chicago mob boss.
“If Petrov wants to talk,” Liam said quietly, his voice dangerously steady, “tell him I’ll meet him. Face to face. No lawyers. No federal agents.”
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Marcus’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you out of your mind, Liam? Petrov doesn't negotiate over coffee. He leaves people hanging from meat hooks in abandoned cold-storage units.”
“Then it’s a good thing,” Liam replied, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair, “that I have a few surprises of my own.”
