Chapter 13 - The Syndicate Council
The underground subterranean bunker beneath the Westbrook shipping headquarters was a fortress of reinforced concrete, bulletproof glass, and digital tactical maps. Unlike the opulent drawing rooms of the estate, this was where the real empire was forged in blood and iron.
Dorian sat at the head of a massive mahogany conference table, flanked by Viktor and four senior capos who controlled the syndicate’s operations across the Great Lakes. The air was thick with the scent of Cuban cigars and high-stakes tension.
“Moretti is making a desperate play,” Viktor stated, tapping a digital stylus against the interactive tactical map projected in the center of the table. Red glowing dots blinked angrily across the Chicago harbor map. “They’ve pulled in mercenaries from the New York families to reinforce their depleted ranks. They think our recent focus on internal security—and the cleanup of the estate—has left our port logistics vulnerable.”
One of the senior capos, a grizzled veteran named Sal, slammed his heavy fist onto the table. “Let them come, boss! We crush them at the docks. We send their bodies back to New York in crates. That’s the only language animals like Moretti understand.”
Dorian remained completely silent. His elbows rested on the arms of his leather chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully beneath his chin. His dark eyes swept over the tactical map, analyzing every variable, every choke point, and every potential civilian risk. Since the night of the Christmas assault, something fundamental had shifted within him. For years, his decisions were dictated purely by profit, territory, and ruthless survival. Now, every strategic move carried a heavier weight. He had a family to protect. He had Nell and Archie.
“No, Sal,” Dorian finally spoke, his voice cutting through the heated murmurs of the room like a razor blade. “We don’t meet them with a blind charge. We draw them out.”
Viktor raised a brow, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Explain, boss.”
“Moretti thinks he’s fighting a wounded beast because of the port warehouse fires,” Dorian said, a cold, predatory smile touching the corners of his lips. “He thinks our supply lines are fractured. We’re going to leave Berth 4 completely unmonitored tonight. We leave a shipment of high-value contraband sitting right on the open tarmac—bait they can’t resist.”
“And when they walk into the trap?” Sal asked, a vicious grin spreading across his scarred face.
“We lock the perimeter down before they even realize they’ve crossed the property line,” Dorian commanded, standing up from his chair. The sheer aura of authority radiating from him commanded instant obedience from every man in the room. “I want every exit sealed. No collateral damage, but no survivors who carry a Moretti crest. Make sure they understand that the Westbrook syndicate owns this city from the lake to the county line.”
“Consider it done, boss,” Viktor said, turning to coordinate the tactical deployment.
May you like
As the capos filed out of the bunker to execute the orders, Dorian lingered behind, pulling out his encrypted satellite phone. He stared at a single contact name on the screen—*Nell*—and for a fleeting second, the terrifying vulnerability of loving someone washed over him. He quickly shook the thought away, steeling his heart. He would burn the world to ashes before he ever let anyone touch what was his.
***
