Chapter 6 - The Cleansing of the North Side
"Kill him, and you break the Commission charter," Marco whispered, his eyes darting toward the capos in the pews. "A boss cannot execute an underboss without an open tribunal. Carmine! Tell him! Tell this lunatic!"
Don Carmine did not move. The old man looked from Marco to the four little boys standing near the sacristy door, then down at the blood pooling around Roberto's shattered wrist on the marble tiles.
"The charter protects men," Carmine said, his voice raspy and ancient. "It does not protect dogs who hunt the children of their Don. If you laid a hand on Sofia Moretti's blood, Marco... you cast yourself out of the family five years ago."
The other capos remained silent, their heads lowered, their allegiance shifting like iron filings before a powerful magnet.
Marco knew it was over. He lunged forward, trying to grab my throat with his bare hands, but I stepped inside his reach, driving the steel butt of the Kimber into the side of his jaw.
Bone crunched. Marco hit the floor hard, spitting blood and broken teeth.
"Lucian," I commanded.
"Boss."
"Take Roberto to the meatpacking plant on Halsted. Hook him up by his good arm. Strip his sleeve and show the boys what he has tattooed on his wrist. Let the capos see the mark of the Corvo Syndicate."
"And Marco?"
I looked down at the man who had been my closest confidant, the man who had hugged me at Sofia’s grave.
"Marco stays with me."
Ten minutes later, the cathedral had cleared. The capos had retreated to their territories to await orders, their terror fresh, their loyalty renewed by the sight of the four heirs. Elena had taken the children out through the rear exit in an armored transport, headed back to the lake house under an escort of twenty loyal soldiers.
Only I, Marco, and the silence of the high vaulted nave remained.
Marco was tied to a wooden chair in the center of the sanctuary, his face battered, his breath coming in wet, ragged gasps.
"You won't get them out of Chicago alive, Alejandro," he spat, blood dripping from his split chin onto his designer shirt. "The Corvos aren't the only ones. I sold the port rights to the New York families three weeks ago. They know the boys exist. They know that if those four grow up, the Moretti family will hold the Midwest for another fifty years. They’re already sending their heavy crews."
I pulled a second chair from the choir stalls, setting it directly across from him. I sat down, leaning forward, resting my forearms on my knees.
"You never understood Sofia, did you, Marco?" I asked quietly.
Marco glared at me, his eyes burning with hatred. "She was a mafia princess who thought she could play church mouse."
"No," I said. "She was the daughter of Don Giancarlo. She knew more about the Commission's books than you ever did. Before she died, she didn't just hide the children, Marco. She left behind her journals. She left behind the banking logs from the Zurich accounts you thought you were skimming."
Marco froze.
"She kept the receipts, Marco. Every payment you made to the Corvos. Every offshore account you opened in the Cayman Islands using syndicate funds. Every communication you had with the Lucchese family in New York."
I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook with gold edges. It was worn, stained with water, but the handwriting on the cover was unmistakable: *Sofia Moretti.*
"Elena gave this to me an hour ago," I continued, turning the pages slowly. "My wife wasn't just hiding my sons from you. She was building the noose that would hang your entire network from the girders of this city."
Marco’s chest heaved. The realization that he had been outplayed by a dying woman five years prior broke whatever remaining pride he had left.
"What are you going to do to me?" he whispered, his voice trembling for the first time.
"I am going to take everything you built," I said, rising to my feet. "Your houses. Your accounts. Your docks. I will give your penthouses to Elena's family. I will give your racehorses to the boys to ride on the farm in Wisconsin. And when there is nothing left of your name in this city except a footnote about a traitor who failed... I will let Lucian have his turn with you."
"Alejandro... please. We were brothers once. For the love of God—"
"Do not invoke God in this house, Marco," I said, turning my back on him. "God left Chicago the day Sofia was murdered. Only I am here now."
May you like
I signaled to the two guards standing by the vestibule doors. "Take him to the basement of the lake house. Put him where the boys cannot hear him scream."
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