Chapter 8 - The Fall of the Prodigal Son
By Friday night, the execution of the Moretti dynasty was complete, and not a single bullet had been fired by a Bennett gun.
The underworld operated on a brutal, mathematical logic: weakness invited predators, and stupidity was unpardonable.
Once word spread through the Chicago Commission that Vincent Moretti had allowed an informant to compromise forty million dollars in interstate logistics, the outcome was inevitable.
The sit-down at the Moretti estate in River Forest that evening wasn't a family dinner. It was a funeral.
In the grand dining room where Marco had threatened to put me under the ice four days earlier, six senior capos of the Chicago Outfit sat around the mahogany table.
Sitting in the corner, her face stripped of makeup, her Chanel jacket discarded, Beatrice Moretti wept silently into a linen handkerchief. The woman who had ruled Chicago society with an iron fist had been completely ostracized; her country club membership had been permanently revoked, her charity boards had voted unanimously to remove her, and the wives of the other capos refused to return her calls.
Marco sat at the head of the table, his shoulders slumped, his eyes vacant.
"The decision has been ratified by New York," announced Salvatore "Sal the Barber" Rizzo, the oldest capo on the council. "Marco... your family has lost the mandate. You couldn't control your son. Your son couldn't control his mistress. And because of your arrogance toward the Bennett family, we have lost all transit rights through the Northern Corridor."
"We can negotiate with Donald Bennett," Marco rasped, his voice weak, sounding like an old man on his deathbed. "We can offer them twenty percent of our gaming revenue—"
"Donald Bennett doesn't want your money, Marco," Rizzo spat, stubbing his cigar out directly onto the polished mahogany table. "Donald Bennett told us an hour ago that the Northern Corridor remains open to the Commission on one condition: the Moretti family is stripped of all executive authority. Permanently."
Vincent sat at the far end of the room, isolated from the table like an outcast leper.
He didn't speak. He didn't fight.
His eyes were fixed on the television screen mounted on the wall, which was currently playing the local news.
*“...In breaking news, federal authorities have executed multiple search warrants across Cook County, arresting thirty-two associates of the Castiglione crime syndicate. Among those taken into custody was twenty-six-year-old socialite Sophia Reynolds, charged with interstate wire fraud, conspiracy to commit armed robbery, and racketeering. Sources say Ms. Reynolds is facing up to forty years in federal prison without the possibility of parole...”*
The screen showed footage of Sophia being led out of a federal building in handcuffs, a blue prison smock hanging off her frail frame, her face pale, weeping hysterically as news cameras flashed in her eyes.
No one was coming to rescue her. No one was paying her bail.
The Morettis had abandoned her to the wolves, and the Castigliones considered her a burned asset. She would spend the prime of her youth rotting in a federal penitentiary in West Virginia, her name synonymous with betrayal and ruin.
Vincent didn't feel pity for her. He felt nothing at all.
His soul had been carved out of his chest, leaving only a hollow, cavernous ache where his pride used to be.
"Vincent," Rizzo called out, his voice dripping with absolute contempt.
Vincent slowly lifted his heavy head. "Yeah?"
"The Commission has stripped your rank," Rizzo said coldly. "You are no longer an underboss. You are no longer an heir. You will hand over your keys to the Grand Avenue club, your offshore account cards, and your weapons permits. You are being exiled to our logistics depot in Omaha, Nebraska. You leave tomorrow morning at dawn."
Omaha.
The ultimate humiliation. For the man who had expected to rule the third-largest city in America, being sent to manage a grain distribution warehouse in Nebraska was worse than a bullet to the brain.
"And if I refuse?" Vincent whispered.
Rizzo looked at Marco. Marco didn't even look up from his hands. His own father had signed the order.
"If you refuse, Vincent," Rizzo said softly, "you don't make it past the front gate."
Vincent stood up.
May you like
He didn't say goodbye to his mother. He didn't look at his father. He took his platinum watch, his gold lighter, and the keys to his sports car, laid them on the table, and walked out into the freezing night.
***
