Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Marble
The noise of the gala washed over Dominic like a lukewarm wave. He adjusted his cuffs, his movements unhurried, almost lazy, as he navigated the crowd. Every eye in the room seemed to trace his movements, but Dominic moved with the supreme confidence of a predator walking through its own territory.
He walked straight toward the main bar where Vincent stood chatting with Alderman Patrick Hayes.
"Dominic!" Vincent called out, his voice bright and enthusiastic as he turned, holding out a glass of champagne. "I was wondering where you disappeared to. Patrick was just telling me about the new zoning permits for the West Loop project."
Dominic stopped a foot away from his brother. He didn't take the champagne. He simply stood there, his dark eyes locked onto Vincent's face, searching for any flicker of guilt, any sign of the boy he had raised after their father died in a federal prison twenty years ago.
"The permits are secured, Vincent," Dominic said softly. "Patrick knows we don't discuss business on ballroom floors."
Alderman Hayes chuckled nervously, clearing his throat as he picked up on the sudden, suffocating drop in atmospheric pressure between the two brothers. "Right, right. Well, Dominic, I'll let you two catch up. I see my wife by the fountain." Hayes beat a hasty retreat, practically jogging toward the opposite side of the room.
Left alone, the smile on Vincent's face didn't fade, but it tightened at the corners.
"Where's Clara?" Vincent asked, taking a sip of his champagne. "I thought she was coming over here after our dance."
"She felt unwell," Dominic replied, his voice a flat, monotone murmur. "I had Tommy escort her out the back. She's heading home."
Vincent’s eyes flickered—just a fraction of a second, but to Dominic, it was as bright as a flare. "Unwell? That's unfortunate. She was such a delightful partner. A bit tense, though. Forensic accountants... always thinking about numbers, I suppose."
"She wasn't thinking about numbers tonight, Vincent," Dominic said. He took a single step closer, closing the distance until he was standing chest-to-chest with his younger brother. "She was thinking about blood."
Vincent’s glass froze halfway to his mouth. The charm melted from his face, replaced by a dark, ugly stillness that Dominic had rarely seen him exhibit.
"What are you talking about?" Vincent whispered.
"The napkin in your coat," Dominic replied softly. "The key to the locker at Union Station. And the file on Clara's father."
For three long seconds, neither man moved. Around them, the music played on—a soft string quartet performing a classical arrangement of a jazz standard. Couples spun across the dance floor; waiters carried trays of smoked salmon and caviar.
"You always were too smart for your own good, Dom," Vincent said, his voice losing every trace of brotherhood, hardening into something cold and bitter. "You spent fifteen years keeping me in the shadows, treating me like the little boy who couldn't handle the real work. You gave me the legitimate front, the polished suits, the charity galas, while you kept the real power for yourself."
"I gave you a life free of blood, Vincent," Dominic said quietly, the pain in his voice buried deep beneath years of stoicism. "I took the dirt so your hands could stay clean."
"Clean?" Vincent let out a bitter, silent laugh. "You kept me weak. You kept me dependent on your approval. Every dollar I made had to go through your approval. Every meeting I had was monitored by your dogs." He leaned in closer, his voice a violent hiss. "The Moretti family offered me fifty percent of the docks. The feds offered me full immunity and the restoration of our legitimate assets. All I had to do was hand them you."
"And Clara?" Dominic asked, his hands resting casually inside his jacket pockets. "Why involve her?"
"Because she was the perfect scapegoat," Vincent sneered softly. "A brilliant, anti-corruption accountant from Milwaukee who suddenly finds massive money laundering traces in Castell accounts? The feds love that narrative. She was going to take the fall for leaking the documents to the press after you 'disappeared' tonight."
"She didn't leak anything," Dominic said. "And she isn't going to die for your ambition."
Vincent smiled—a cold, hollow expression. "It's too late, Dom. Look around you. The mezzanine is crawling with federal tactical units. The moment you walk out those front doors, they're serving an emergency arrest warrant for enterprise corruption and murder. And if you resist..." Vincent tilted his head slightly toward the balcony. "...they have snipers on the roof of the theater across the street."
Dominic didn't look up at the balconies. He didn't look at the doors. Instead, he reached into his jacket, pulled out his heavy gold signet ring—the one featuring the Castell family crest that their father had worn—and dropped it cleanly into Vincent's half-full glass of champagne.
The heavy ring sank to the bottom with a quiet clink, bubbles rising around the gold.
"You forgot one thing, brother," Dominic said, his voice chillingly absolute.
"What's that?"
"You learned how to wear a suit from me," Dominic whispered, turning his back on Vincent. "But you never learned how to survive a war."
Dominic walked away before Vincent could respond. He didn't head for the main entrance where the federal agents were waiting. He walked straight toward the kitchen doors, pulling his satellite phone from his pocket as he moved.
He dialed a single number.
May you like
"Frank," Dominic said as the call connected. "Initiate Blackout at the Astor Grand. Now."
Three seconds later, the hotel's main transformer exploded in a shower of sparks from the basement level. The entire Astor Grand Hotel was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
