Chapter 4 - The Lower Lounge
The lower lounge of the estate had been designed by Dominic’s father in 1998 to resemble a gentleman’s club in London—dark mahogany paneling, deep green leather armchairs, a monumental granite fireplace, and zero windows facing the land side of the property.
Four men sat near the hearth.
Marco Reyes—thirty-four years old, with thin, sleek black hair slicked back with expensive pomade, wearing an Italian wool suit that cost more than Nora’s annual salary— sat in Hector’s old wingback chair. A crystal tumbler of eighteen-year-old single malt sat on the marble table beside him.
Beside him stood Vince, the security guard with the anchor tattoo, his hands folded neatly over his tactical belt. Two other men, broad-shouldered South Side enforcers with heavy leather jackets, sat near the billiards table, playing with a set of ivory balls.
The double doors swung open.
Dominic walked in.
He was still wearing his robe, his face pale as lard under the low chandelier light, but he walked without a limp. His right hand was tucked casually into the deep pocket of his silk gown.
Marco jumped up, a wide, easy smile instantly spreading across his handsome, narrow face.
"Dominic! Jesus, cousin, what are you doing out of bed? Dr. Vance said you shouldn't be moving for at least another week!"
"Dr. Vance worries too much," Dominic said smoothly, walking toward the bar. He did not look at Vince. He did not look at the two men at the pool table. He picked up a crystal glass, poured two fingers of scotch, and turned around to face his cousin.
"How are the docks in East Chicago, Marco?" Dominic asked quietly.
Marco’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second—so fast that no ordinary observer would have caught it. "Quiet, Dom. Standard runs. Salerno’s people are still laying low after the hit on you. They know if they step over the river, we’ll turn the precinct into a graveyard."
"Salerno didn't shoot me, Marco," Dominic said, taking a tiny sip of the amber liquid.
Marco’s eyes narrowed slightly, his posture tensing beneath his expensive suit. "What are you talking about? The shooter was identified as one of Marco Salerno’s junior torpedoes from the Cicero crew."
"The shooter was a kid named Joey Miller," Dominic said, his voice flat, rhythmic, and cold as stone. "His father worked the 41st Street yards twelve years ago. He used a custom-loaded 9mm hollow point—the kind you buy from that retired gunsmith in Hammond. The one who only takes work from you, cousin."
Silence stretched across the mahogany room. The heavy iron clock on the mantle ticked once, twice, three times.
Vince’s hand shifted half an inch toward his holster.
"Dom," Marco said softly, his voice dropping its warm, familial tone. "You're feverish. The blood loss is making you confused."
"I’m not confused, Marco," Dominic said. "Twelve years ago, you took ninety thousand dollars from Marco Salerno’s old man to open the side gate at the railyards. You thought Mateo Castillo didn't see you. But Mateo kept a book. A black book with a cloth cover and brass corners."
Marco’s face went entirely white, the red flush of the scotch vanishing from his cheeks as if drained by a syringe.
"Where is it?" Marco rasped. His voice had lost all its polish; it was now the raw, desperate snarl of a cornered rat. "Where did you get that name?"
"Mateo’s daughter is currently in my house," Dominic lied smoothly, watching Marco’s eyes dart toward the ceiling. "She gave me the book thirty minutes ago. She also gave me the names of the four union delegates you bought off with Salerno’s cash."
Marco stared at him, his mouth slightly open, his chest heaving. Then, slowly, a cold, ugly grin spread across his face.
"You're dying, Dominic," Marco sneered, leaning against the marble fireplace. "Look at you. You can barely stand. You think you're your father? You think because you sit in this big house on the lake that you own this city? Hector was a giant. You're just a sick man who got lucky twelve nights ago."
Marco snapped his fingers.
Vince pulled his gun.
The two men at the pool table reached into their leather jackets.
"Kill him," Marco said calmly, picking up his glass of scotch. "Make it look like a secondary hemorrhage from the gunshot wound. Tell Callahan his stitches gave out while he was walking down the stairs."
Vince raised his pistol, aiming it directly between Dominic’s eyes.
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Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't drop his glass.
He simply pressed his thumb against the small, flat button hidden inside his robe pocket.
