Chapter 10 - A New Dawn on the River
Three weeks later, the Black Harbor Club was back in full swing.
The jazz bar along the Chicago River was packed with patrons, the air thick with the smooth, soulful notes of a saxophone trio playing in the corner, mingling with the murmur of conversation and the clink of crystal glasses. Behind the mahogany desk in the private back office, Vincent Moretti sat reviewing the club’s weekly revenue ledger, the familiar routine settling back into place.
On the corner of the desk sat the burner phone. Silent. Dark. Unused.
Nico walked into the office, holding a fresh cup of black coffee and a manila envelope, which he tossed casually onto the desk blotter.
“Everything’s quiet on the West Side,” Nico reported, leaning against the bookshelf. “The Delaney crew has completely folded their operations in that district after the raid. Their bosses are too busy running for cover to notice us expanding our docks into Cicero. The river is ours, boss.”
“Good,” Vincent said without looking up from his paperwork. “Make sure our distribution routes stay clean. No drugs, no extortion involving families. If anyone on our payroll steps out of line, they answer to me personally.”
“Consider it handled,” Nico said, grinning slightly. He glanced at the burner phone on the corner of the desk. “By the way... heard from the North Side today.”
Vincent stopped writing. He slowly looked up, his dark eyes fixing on Nico. “And?”
Nico pulled a small, colorful postcard out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the mahogany desk.
Vincent picked it up. On the front was a bright picture of a sunny park with green trees and children playing on swings. On the back, written in shaky, careful, childish handwriting with a purple crayon, were a few simple words:
Dear Mr. Moretti, We’re safe in our new home. The sun is shining here today, and I still have my stuffed rabbit. Thank you for coming when I called. Love, Lily.
Vincent stared at the crooked letters for a long, silent moment. A rare, genuine warmth spread through his chest—a feeling of absolute completion that no amount of territory, power, or money could ever buy.
He carefully placed the postcard down on the center of his desk, right beneath the antique brass clock that ticked steadily toward a bright, unclouded future.
May you like
Vincent reached out, picked up his coffee cup, and took a slow sip, a faint smile touching his lips as the jazz music drifted softly through the walls from the club outside.
The night was quiet. The river was calm. And in the heart of Chicago, the monster in the dark had finally found his peace.
