Chapter 6 - The Dinner at the Drake
On Friday evening, six days after the Carlton House Gala, the private dining room on the lower level of The Drake Hotel was booked under a corporate shell company.
The room was opulent—paneled in dark mahogany, illuminated by crystal wall sconces, and centered around a long table set for eight guests.
Sitting at the head of the table was Victor Moretti.
Victor was fifty-eight years old, a veteran of Detroit’s ruthless underworld who had built his reputation on backroom betrayals and quiet assassinations. He wore a sharp grey suit, a thick gold pinky ring, and carried himself with the supreme confidence of a man who believed he was two steps ahead of everyone in the Midwest.
Sitting around the table were four of his top lieutenants and two corrupt Chicago municipal officials who had agreed to transfer the South Side shipping yard permits to Moretti’s logistics firm by midnight.
“To new management in Chicago,” Victor announced, raising a crystal glass of eighteen-year-old scotch.
The men around the table laughed, raising their glasses in unison.
“I told you Vale was soft,” Victor smirked, taking a sip. “You give a man a pretty, curvy wife from the suburbs, and he forgets how to run a syndicate. Julian called me two days ago—Vale hasn't left his penthouse in seventy-two hours. He’s losing his mind because his wife won't look at him.”
One of the municipal officials chuckled. “So the permit transfer goes through at midnight?”
“The permits are already signed,” Victor declared, pulling a thick leather folder from his briefcase and laying it on the table. “Once Vale’s wife flees back to Wisconsin, Julian will leak the deepfake video to the U.S. Attorney. By Monday morning, Dominic Vale will be sitting in a federal holding cell, and his empire will be ours.”
Before the official could respond, the double mahogany doors of the private dining room swung open.
There was no explosion. No screaming. No sound of gunfire.
Just two men stepping into the room.
Marcus Bell walked in first, dressed in a plain black suit, his hands tucked behind his back, positioning himself near the service door.
And behind him stepped Dominic Vale.
The laughter around the table died instantly. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees in a single second.
Victor Moretti froze, his scotch glass hovering two inches from his lips, his eyes widening in pure, unadulterated shock.
“Dominic...” Victor stammered, trying to force a smile onto his weathered face. “What a pleasant surprise. We were just... discussing commercial real estate permits.”
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He walked slowly down the length of the table, his heavy leather shoes making a rhythmic, deliberate sound against the hardwood floor.
He stopped at the chair directly opposite Victor.
Dominic didn't sit down. He rested his gloved hands on the back of the mahogany chair, looking around the table at the four lieutenants, who were sitting paralyzed, their hands hovering nervously near their jacket pockets.
“If any of your men reach for a weapon, Victor,” Dominic said softly, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm, “Marcus will put a bullet through your shoulder before their fingers touch leather.”
The lieutenants instantly raised their hands, placing their palms flat on the dining table.
Victor swallowed hard, setting his scotch glass down with a slight rattle. “Dominic, look... there’s no need for hostility. We’re businessmen. If you want a piece of the Michigan freight lines, we can negotiate—”
Dominic reached into his inner jacket pocket.
Victor flinched, leaning back into his chair.
Dominic pulled out a sleek silver laptop, set it on the table in front of Victor, and opened the screen.
The monitor displayed a live video feed from a high-security holding cell in an undisclosed location.
Sitting in the corner of the cell, chained to a steel bench, bruised, terrified, and weeping, was Julian Vance.
Beside Julian sat a large digital monitor playing the deepfake video Julian had created—playing it on a continuous, loud loop that echoed through the small cell.
Victor’s face drained of every drop of color.
“Julian was very cooperative, Victor,” Dominic said, leaning forward across the table. “He gave us your private server passwords. He gave us your offshore account numbers in the Cayman Islands. And he gave us the unedited audio recordings of every phone call you made to him over the last six months.”
Victor stared at the screen, his chest heaving, his jaw working silently.
“You thought you could touch my wife,” Dominic whispered, his slate-gray eyes locking onto Victor’s with a cold, absolute promise of annihilation. “You thought because she wasn't raised in our world, she was a weak point you could leverage.”
Dominic reached down, picked up the thick leather folder containing the signed shipping permits, and tossed it onto the table.
“Those permits belong to Vale Logistics now,” Dominic said flatly. “And as for your operation in Detroit... Marcus took control of your primary distribution terminal forty-five minutes ago.”
Victor gasped, jumping to his feet, his chair crashing backward onto the floor. “You can’t do that! The Detroit families will start a war!”
Dominic stepped closer to Victor, looking down at him from his towering height.
“The Detroit families called me two hours ago, Victor,” Dominic said softly. “When I showed them the recordings of you planning to use federal law enforcement wiretaps to take down midwest shipping lines, they voted unanimously to retire your leadership.”
Victor stumbled backward, his knees hitting the sideboard, his hands shaking violently as he realized the horrific scope of his mistake.
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He hadn't just failed to break Dominic Vale.
He had handed Dominic the keys to his entire empire on a silver platter.
