Chapter 4 - The Fall of the Old Guard
By noon, the grand ballroom of the DeLuca estate was no longer a place of celebration.
The crystal chandeliers were dark. The champagne towers had been cleared away. Instead, twenty men sat around the long mahogany conference table where syndicate capos, union presidents, and board directors usually met to divide the spoils of Chicago.
At the head of the table sat Julian DeLuca.
He wore a plain black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He didn't look like a grieving fiancé or a cornered boss. He looked like a man who had been buried alive and had finally clawed his way back to the surface.
Marcus Vance, the senior board director and the man who had ordered Claire’s exile four years ago, sat near the middle of the table, his face flushed with angry arrogance.
“This is an outrage, Julian!” Marcus barked, slamming his hand against the mahogany. “We have an emergency board meeting called to address the federal investigation triggered by this ridiculous poisoning incident, and you bring us down here like criminals? Where is Cassandra? Where are the federal judges?”
Julian didn't answer immediately. He slowly closed the manila folder lying in front of him and slid it across the table toward Marcus.
Marcus glanced down at the folder. The color drained from his face as fast as water sinking into dry sand.
“What... what is this?” Marcus stammered, his fingers trembling as he opened the cover and saw the bank routing numbers, the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, and the signed kill orders bearing his own signature.
“That is the ledger of your retirement, Marcus,” Julian said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
“You can’t prove any of this!” Marcus snarled, standing up, his eyes darting toward the double doors where four armed security guards stood in absolute silence. “The board will back me! We control the votes! We control the contracts!”
“You control nothing,” Julian interrupted, leaning forward. “As of 9:00 a.m. this morning, every asset held by the old guard’s shell corporations has been seized under RICO provisions. Federal marshals are currently executing search warrants at your homes, your offices, and your bank vaults.”
Marcus lunged forward, reaching into his jacket for a concealed firearm.
He didn't even clear leather.
Before Marcus’s hand could grip the pistol grip, two of the guards moved with blinding speed. Marcus was slammed face-first onto the mahogany table, his arm twisted behind his back with bone-crunching force, a silver set of handcuffs snapping around his wrists.
“Take him out of my sight,” Julian ordered coldly. “Put him in the holding cells downstairs. Send the rest of the board home. They have twelve hours to resign before I release their names to the Department of Justice.”
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As Marcus was dragged screaming from the room, the remaining directors slumped back into their chairs, paralyzed by the sudden, absolute destruction of their syndicate.
Julian stood up. He buttoned his cuffs, picked up the cedar box from the side table, and walked out of the ballroom without looking back.
