Chapter 8 - The Clearing of the Account
At 9:00 a.m., the rain stopped, leaving the streets of Chicago slick and gleaming like silver under a pale autumn sun.
A black SUV pulled into the alley behind an abandoned meatpacking plant in the stockyards district.
Marco opened the heavy steel door of the warehouse, stepping aside to let Roman pass through into the cold, cavernous interior.
Inside, two men were tied to wooden chairs under a single hanging lightbulb.
Julian Valenti sat on the left, his suit ruined, his broken wrist wrapped in a crude sling, his face swollen and bruised.
On the right sat Howard Vance, the sixty-year-old lawyer, wearing a disheveled tweed coat, his wire-rimmed glasses crooked on his nose, weeping hysterically into a handkerchief.
“Roman!” Vance shrieked as Roman approached. “Roman, please! It was Julian! He forced me! He threatened my grandchildren!”
Roman didn't look at Vance. He stopped five feet from Julian, pulling a thick silver cigarette case from his pocket. He selected a clove cigarette, lit it with a Zippo, and blew a thin stream of gray smoke toward the high rafters.
“The council met at eight o’clock this morning,” Roman said conversationally.
Julian lifted his swollen face, his eyes narrow and red. “What council?”
“The Chicago council,” Roman said. “Silvano was there. Donatelli was there. Even the New York representatives came in via satellite.”
Julian swallowed hard. “And?”
“I showed them the ledger,” Roman said. “I showed them the six hundred thousand dollars you diverted from my family trust. I showed them the dock purchase agreements you signed without my authorization. And I showed them the medical report on Claire from Northwestern Hospital.”
Julian’s breath hitched. In the mob hierarchy, stealing from a boss was a death sentence. But starving a boss’s pregnant wife was something far worse—it was an offense against the code that even the most ruthless old-country dons would not forgive.
“Silvano called you a dog,” Roman continued mildly. “He said a man who feeds off his cousin’s table and steals from an unborn child isn't fit to be buried in consecrated ground.”
Howard Vance let out a high-pitched wail and collapsed forward against his restraints, sobbing uncontrollably.
“What are you going to do to us, Roman?” Julian rasped, his voice trembling despite his effort to look brave.
Roman took a slow drag from his cigarette. He looked at his cousin with an expression of profound, absolute indifference—the look a man gave to an insect he was about to step on.
“You wanted the docks, Julian,” Roman said. “You spent six months lying, stealing, and hurting my wife so you could own the shipping lines.”
Roman turned toward the warehouse doors, where three heavy-set men in leather jackets were waiting with iron chains and concrete blocks.
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“I’m giving you the docks,” Roman said quietly. “You’re going to spend the rest of your life at the bottom of slip four.”
Roman walked out of the warehouse into the crisp autumn air, not looking back as the heavy steel doors slammed shut behind him, cutting off the frantic, screaming pleas of the men inside.
