Chapter 8 - The Cleansing of Chicago
At 8:00 AM, the rain finally stopped, leaving Chicago wrapped in a cold, suffocating fog.
In the penthouse suite of the Palmer House Hotel, Salvatore Moretti sat at an antique mahogany dining table, sipping an espresso with a shaking hand.
Across from him sat four senior capos of the Chicago outfit. The atmosphere in the room was electric with terror.
"The Logan Square strike failed," Moretti rasped, slamming his porcelain cup down so hard it shattered, splashing dark liquid across the white linen. "The Albanians were slaughtered before they even cleared the stairwell. Bellini was already there."
"Sal, we have to run," one of the capos whispered, his face pale. "You don't understand. Alessandro didn't call the police. He didn't call the Commission. He mobilized the entire southern syndicate. They’ve locked down the highways. The bridges are monitored."
"He doesn't have the stomach for a total war," Moretti growled, trying to convince himself. "Not with his wife in the hospital. He’s distracted. We go to the Commission, we demand a sit-down—"
The heavy oak doors of the penthouse suite did not unlock.
They were blasted inward with a thunderous *CRACK* that sent splinters flying across the foyer.
Before the capos could draw their weapons, four flashbang grenades detonated in rapid succession, filling the penthouse with blinding white light and a deafening roar.
Smoke poured into the room.
Through the haze walked Alessandro Bellini.
He was dressed in a fresh, pristine black suit. His white shirt was buttoned to the neck, his tie straight, his dark hair slicked back. In his right hand, he carried a heavy steel trench gun.
Behind him marched twenty heavily armed Bellini operators, their rifles trained on every head in the room.
Within three seconds, the four capos were face-down on the floor, their hands bound behind their backs with zip-ties.
Salvatore Moretti was pinned against the dining table, Marco’s forearm pressed hard against the back of his neck, forcing his face into the spilled espresso.
Alessandro walked forward, his polished shoes crunching over broken glass. He stopped at the head of the table, set the trench gun against the mahogany, and pulled out an antique silver cigarette case.
He lit a cigarette with steady fingers, exhaled a plume of blue smoke into the vaulted ceiling, and looked down at Moretti.
"Sal," Alessandro said smoothly.
Moretti choked, struggling against Marco’s grip. "Alessandro! It was a mistake! Isabella came to us! She told us you were weak! She told us you were giving the empire to a civilian!"
"Isabella is currently on a private jet to Sicily," Alessandro said quietly. "She will spend the rest of her miserable life looking at olive trees behind a twelve-foot stone wall. But you, Sal... you don't get an olive grove."
"You can't do this!" Moretti screamed, his voice cracking with terror. "The Five Families in New York won't allow a massacre! There are rules!"
Alessandro leaned down until his face was inches from Moretti’s ear.
"There were rules," Alessandro whispered. "Until you sent men with automatic weapons into the bedroom of my pregnant wife. You broke the only rule that mattered, Sal. You brought the street to my sanctuary."
Alessandro stood straight and looked at Marco.
"Strip their operations," Alessandro commanded. "Every warehouse, every port terminal, every betting parlor belonging to the Moretti family is now absorbed into the Bellini trust. If anyone resists, put them in the ground."
"And Moretti, Boss?" Marco asked.
Alessandro turned his back, picking up his trench gun.
"Sal wanted to orchestrate a car accident on Lake Shore Drive," Alessandro said, walking toward the shattered entrance. "Take him out to the lake. Let him see how cold the water is in October."
May you like
As the screams began behind him, Alessandro walked into the elevator, his mind already miles away, back in the quiet hospital room where his wife and child were sleeping.
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