Chapter 7 - Flight to the Windy City
The private Gulfstream G650 jet touched down on the tarmac at O'Hare International Airport under a cold, leaden Chicago sky that mirrored the steel-gray waters of Lake Michigan.
As the aircraft taxied toward the private Moretti hangar, I stood up from my leather seat in the executive cabin, adjusting the cuffs of my charcoal suit. Across the aisle, Elena sat nervously by the window, her hands tightly gripping a cup of paper coffee, her eyes scanning the armed security vehicles waiting outside on the tarmac.
When I insisted that Elena and Mia accompany me to Chicago, she had nearly had a panic attack. But leaving them unprotected at the Long Island safehouse while the entirety of the syndicate was in an uproar was a tactical vulnerability I refused to accept. Where I went, my perimeter went.
“Mr. Moretti,” Elena whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she looked up at me. “Are you sure this is safe? Don Salvatore... everyone says he’s ruthless. If he wanted you dead—”
“Salvatore is a politician with a gun, Elena,” I interrupted, my voice calm, reassuring, and completely steady. “Politicians don't make aggressive moves when they don't know the size of the army standing behind the door. Just stay close to Mateo, keep Mia with you in the secure lounge, and let me handle the politics.”
A few feet away, sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet, Mia was entirely unconcerned with international crime syndicates or Chicago politics. She was busy using my heavy Montblanc pen to draw jagged purple ink monsters on a cocktail napkin, humming a cheerful, discordant tune to herself.
The cabin door hissed open, and the cold midwestern wind rushed inside.
Mateo stepped up, checking the tactical rifle slung discreetly beneath his long wool overcoat. “The motorcade is locked and loaded, Boss. Four bulletproof black Suburbans. The Chicago Outfit has units positioned at the perimeter gates, but they haven't made a hostile move yet.”
“Let’s go show them how New York does business,” I said.
Ten minutes later, our motorcade rolled through the gates of an sprawling, heavily fortified estate in the northern suburbs of Chicago—the traditional headquarters of the Midwest commission. The compound was surrounded by twenty-foot brick walls topped with razor wire and guarded by men wearing the insignia of the Chicago Outfit.
As our vehicles pulled up to the grand entrance of the main manor, the heavy oak doors swung open.
Waiting on the stone steps was Don Salvatore himself: a tall, imposing man in his late sixties with slicked-back silver hair, an impeccably tailored navy suit, and a cold, predatory smile that didn't reach his dead, black eyes. Behind him stood a dozen armed enforcers, their hands resting loosely near their holsters.
I stepped out of the lead Suburban, my stride confident and unhurried. The biting wind whipped my coat around my legs, but I didn't flinch.
Salvatore descended the steps, spreading his arms wide in a mock gesture of hospitality.
“Luca Moretti,” Salvatore purred, his voice dripping with condescension. “Welcome to the Windy City. Word on the street is you’ve been doing some heavy housekeeping back in New York. Taking out legends like Vincent, crippling Daniel... people are starting to wonder if the young lion has lost his mind.”
I stopped ten feet away from him, my hands tucked casually into my trouser pockets. I didn't smile. I didn't offer my hand.
“Housekeeping is sometimes necessary when the servants start stealing from the master’s house, Salvatore,” I replied, my voice carrying clearly across the cold courtyard.
Salvatore’s predatory smile tightened at the edges. A dangerous glint flashed in his black eyes. “You violated the charter, Moretti. You acted without commission approval. You executed a senior capo and crippled a loyal soldier over a civilian—over a secretary and a brat who don't belong in our world.”
Before I could answer, the rear door of the Suburban behind me clicked open.
Footsteps tapped against the frozen asphalt.
Salvatore and his enforcers blinked in sheer disbelief as Elena stepped out of the vehicle, holding the hand of a small girl in a bright yellow dress and pink sneakers.
Mia looked around the imposing Chicago estate, scrunched up her nose at the gloomy weather, and marched right past the stunned Chicago enforcers, coming to a halt directly beside my left leg.
She looked up at Don Salvatore, who stood a full four feet taller than her, and glared at him with the full, unyielding fury of an outraged monarch.
“You have a grumpy face,” Mia announced loudly, pointing a tiny finger right at Salvatore’s chest. “And your coat is ugly.”
A dead, absolute silence fell over the entire courtyard.
Salvatore’s face flushed a deep, mottled shade of crimson. His mouth opened, but no words came out as he stared down at the three-year-old girl who had just insulted the most feared crime boss in the Midwest in front of his entire private army.
May you like
I looked down at Mia, patted her dark curls gently, and looked straight back into Don Salvatore’s paralyzed eyes.
“She’s the boss, Salvatore,” I said softly, resting my hand near my holster. “And she wants to know if we can wrap this meeting up quickly so we can get ice cream.”
