Chapter 7 - The Summit at the Grand Hotel
The grand ballroom of the Chicago Grand Hotel was a masterpiece of old-world luxury—crystal chandeliers, gilded mirrors, and velvet drapery.
Seated around a massive oval oak table were eleven heads of the Midwest's most powerful crime families. At the center sat Sal Falcone, a heavy-set, arrogant man in his late fifties with slicked-back gray hair and a heavy gold ring on every finger.
Falcone was laughing, sipping champagne, completely unaware that his world was about to collapse.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the ballroom were thrown open with a loud bang.
Vincent Romano walked in.
He was flanked by eight heavily armed bodyguards, but what caught everyone's attention was the woman walking beside him—Lydia Harrison, wearing a striking dark navy dress, her chin held high, the blue sapphire necklace glittering brilliantly under the crystal chandeliers.
The chatter in the room died instantly. Several capos stood up, their hands moving nervously toward their jackets.
"Vincent?" Falcone said, his arrogant smile fading into a confused scowl. "What is the meaning of this? This is a private summit for regional leaders. You can't just barge in here with guards—"
"Quiet, Sal," Vincent said smoothly, walking up to the head of the table. He tossed the blue velvet folder into the center of the oak table, where it slid across the polished wood and bumped against Falcone’s champagne glass.
"What is this?" Falcone growled, glaring at the folder.
"That," Vincent said, leaning his hands on the back of a chair, "is the complete record of every illegal wire transfer, every compromised police report, and every bribe you paid to my former underboss, Silas Vance, over the past three years."
The room erupted into shocked whispers among the other family bosses.
Falcone went red in the face. "You're crazy! Silas Vance disappeared two nights ago! You're making up lies to start a territory war!"
Vincent pulled a small portable tape player from his jacket, set it on the table, and pressed Play.
The sharp, clear voice of Sal Falcone echoed through the grand ballroom: “Make sure the girl’s car goes off the cliff road, Silas. I want Vincent broken. I want him so blinded by grief he won't notice when we take the South Side.”
The recording stopped.
The silence in the ballroom was absolute. The other crime bosses looked at Falcone with deep disgust and rising hostility. In the underworld, killing another Don’s wife was an unforgivable violation of the highest code—a crime that warranted complete, merciless extermination.
Falcone backed away from the table, his hands shaking violently as he looked around the room at the hostile eyes staring at him. "It's... it's a fake! A digital voice synthesizer!"
"It's real, Sal," Vincent said softly, his voice echoing through the massive room. "And every boss sitting at this table now knows that you broke the code."
Old Man Moretti, the senior boss of the Detroit family, stood up slowly, pointing a wrinkled finger at Falcone. "Sal Falcone, your family is stripped of its commission standing effective immediately. You are an outlaw in this city."
May you like
Falcone’s face turned gray. He looked frantic, his eyes locking onto Lydia standing beside Vincent. "You... you brought that waitress here to ruin me!"
"She didn't ruin you, Sal," Lydia spoke up, her voice clear and resonant across the grand hall. "Isabella Romano ruined you. She just used my hands to deliver the sentence."
