Chapter 2 - The Meridian Club
While Nora bled on a steel table near the Gold Coast, Dante Cross sat in the private executive suite of the Meridian Club, thirty floors above downtown Chicago.
The room smelled of expensive cigars, vintage cognac, and rain leaking through the balcony doors.
Across the low glass table sat Vivian Sloan, draped in a emerald silk gown that cost more than most people earned in a year. She was pouring amber liquid into two crystal glasses, her lips curved into a soft, victory-filled smile.
“The port authorities signed the agreement ten minutes ago, Dante,” Vivian said smoothly, pushing a glass toward him. “The North End shipping lanes are yours. The Valenti family has been squeezed out of Lake Michigan entirely.”
Dante sat back in his leather chair, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He looked composed, formidable, every inch the undisputed Don of the Midwest. But beneath his cold exterior, an unusual, irritating restlessness had been clawing at his chest for two hours.
He checked his wrist watch. 3:50 AM.
He pulled his encrypted phone from his pocket. The screen was completely blank—no notifications, no calls, no messages.
“Is something wrong?” Vivian asked softly, leaning forward so her perfume drifted across the table.
“My phone is silent,” Dante observed, his voice dark and dangerous.
Vivian smiled, taking a slow sip of her drink. “I asked my assistant to route all low-priority security alerts to the outer office so we wouldn't be interrupted during the council vote. You needed this deal, Dante. You couldn't afford distractions.”
Dante’s hazel eyes narrowed into slits of ice. “Low-priority?”
He stood up, his height instantly dominating the room. He walked over to the heavy double doors of the suite, pulling them open.
Vivian’s assistant, a nervous young woman named Clara, sat at a desk in the outer hallway holding a tablet.
“Give me my main line,” Dante ordered, his voice dropping into a register that made Clara flinch.
“Mr. Cross... Miss Sloan said—”
“Give me the phone, Clara,” Dante growled, taking two steps toward her.
Terrified, Clara handed over the secondary terminal.
Dante tapped the screen, unlocking the raw security logs from his personal driver and the private medical center.
The screen lit up with sixteen missed calls. Four text messages from Eli. Three urgent alerts from Dr. Harding.
And one final text message from Nora, sent at 1:08 AM:
Dante, I’m in labor. Please.
Dante stared at the screen.
The air left his lungs as if he had been struck by an iron bar. His broad chest heaved under his crisp black shirt.
1:08 AM.
It was now nearly four in the morning.
Vivian stepped out into the hallway, setting her glass on the console table. “Dante, listen to me. Nora is fine. She’s at the private clinic with the best doctors money can buy. If you had left the vote, the Valenti captains would have claimed you were weak—”
Dante turned around.
In one fluid, terrifying motion, his hand slammed around Vivian’s throat, backing her up against the mahogany wall before she could finish her sentence.
Clara gasped, dropping her tablet to the carpet.
Vivian’s eyes widened in sheer horror as she looked into Dante’s face. The cold, disciplined man she thought she could manipulate was gone. In his place stood a monster of pure, unbridled rage.
“If anything has happened to my wife or my child,” Dante whispered, his voice so quiet it was far more terrifying than a scream, “I will tear your family’s empire apart brick by brick, and I will leave your body in the lake.”
He released her neck. Vivian collapsed against the baseboard, coughing violently, clutching her throat.
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Dante didn't look back. He grabbed his coat, drew his weapon from his holster, and sprinted down the private corridor toward the elevator.
“Eli!” Dante roared into his radio comms as he hit the elevator button. “Get the cars to the Gold Coast clinic! Now!”
