Chapter 17 - The Syndicate’s Last Stand
The following evening, the underground bunker beneath the Westbrook headquarters resembled a war room on the brink of total victory. The digital tactical maps glowed a brilliant, unbroken green across all major sectors of Chicago. Moretti’s primary port operations had been seized, his financial accounts frozen through offshore shell companies, and his most trusted capos were either in federal custody or lying silent beneath the frozen lake.
Viktor strode up to the main console, sliding a heavy manila folder across the mahogany surface toward Dorian, who sat reviewing shipping manifests.
“That’s the last of it, boss,” Viktor reported, a rare hint of satisfaction in his gravelly voice. “Moretti’s main estate in the northern suburbs has been surrounded by our tactical units. He’s completely isolated. No reinforcements, no money, no escape.”
Dorian closed the manila folder slowly. He stood up, smoothing the front of his tailored dark suit jacket. A cold, absolute finality settled over his features.
“Let’s go pay our final respects,” Dorian said quietly.
Two armored black SUVs rolled through the wrought-iron gates of Moretti’s sprawling suburban mansion less than an hour later. The once-grand estate was eerily quiet, its security guards disarmed and zip-tied along the stone pathway without a single shot fired. The Westbrook syndicate’s reputation alone had broken their morale before the fight even began.
Dorian stepped out into the freezing night air, his heavy leather shoes crunching softly against the frozen gravel. Viktor and four elite enforcers flanked him as they walked up the grand marble steps of the mansion.
The heavy front doors stood wide open.
Inside, the opulent foyer was draped in expensive art and crystal chandeliers, but the air smelled of stale scotch and raw, unadulterated terror. Sitting alone in a high-backed leather armchair at the far end of the grand parlor was Arthur Moretti—once the most feared syndicate boss in the Midwest. Now, he looked like a broken, shivering old man, his silk robe stained with sweat, a heavy revolver resting uselessly on the table beside him.
Moretti looked up as Dorian’s shadow fell across the Persian rug. The aging mafia boss tried to force a defiant sneer onto his lips, but his hands trembled uncontrollably.
“Westbrook,” Moretti rasped, his voice cracking. “You think you’ve won? You think taking my ports and my money means you own the city? The commission in New York will never let you consolidate this much power.”
Dorian stopped a few feet away, his hands resting casually inside his trouser pockets. He looked down at Moretti with absolute, chilling detachment.
“The commission in New York doesn't give a damn about a dead man,” Dorian replied smoothly. “And neither do I. You made the fatal mistake of threatening my family, Arthur. In my world, that is the one debt that can never be restructured.”
Moretti lunged desperately for the revolver on the table, his fingers clawing for the grip—
*Bang.*
Viktor’s silenced pistol didn't miss.
Moretti slumped back into the armchair, his lifeless hand dropping open as the heavy revolver clattered uselessly onto the rug.
May you like
Dorian didn’t even blink. He turned slowly toward the door, pulling out his encrypted phone. “Clean it up, Viktor. And notify the other families that Chicago has a new, unchallengeable order.”
***
