Chapter 9 - The Reckoning at Lake Michigan
Two days later, Damian Cross was cornered.
His syndicates dismantled, his accounts frozen by federal authorities, and his safehouses overrun by Kane’s enforcers, Cross made a desperate final stand at a private yacht club along the foggy shores of Lake Michigan.
He never made it onto a boat.
As Cross stepped out of his town car, a wall of black-suited enforcers blocked every exit. Gabriel Kane stepped out from the mist, his long wool coat billowing slightly in the cold lake breeze. He walked with slow, deliberate steps, his face carved from granite.
"Gabriel," Cross sneered, spitting blood onto the wet pavement as he reached for a concealed weapon. "You think you've won? The syndicate will just replace me. There's always another boss."
"Let them try," Gabriel said softly, closing the distance between them.
Before Cross could clear his holster, Gabriel moved with terrifying, lightning speed. A single brutal strike to Cross’s wrist sent his weapon clattering across the concrete, followed swiftly by a crushing blow that dropped the crime lord to his knees in the mud.
Gabriel leaned down, his face inches from Cross’s ear.
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"You touched my nephew," Gabriel whispered, his voice like the edge of a razor. "And you laid a hand on the woman I love. For that, your name dies here today."
Ten minutes later, Damian Cross was cuffed and handed over to federal agents waiting down the block—facing a lifetime behind bars with no possibility of parole. The Chicago underworld fell into a sudden, absolute silence. The war was over.
