Chapter 5 - The Cost of an Empire
Victor slowly leaned back in his chair, his posture changing from that of an accused man to a sovereign defending his crown. He did not deny it. He did not weep. He simply adjusted his gold cufflinks with meticulous care.
"Your father built this family on honor, Adrian," Victor said, his tone turning hard and analytical. "And look where it got him. A ditch in Gary, Indiana, with three bullets in his spine. When I took over, I made us rich. I bought the city. I gave you and Michael an empire."
"An empire you traded Michael’s life for," Adrian said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
"Michael was weak!" Victor snapped, slamming his palm onto the table, making the fine china rattle. "He was soft, Adrian! He wanted to clean the money. He wanted to pull out of the narcotics trade. He wanted to sign agreements with the feds to legitimate our real estate holdings. He was going to dismantle forty years of work because he had a wife and a son and suddenly developed a conscience!"
"He was your nephew," Adrian said.
"He was going to ruin us!" Victor snarled. "The Commission came to me. They told me if Michael didn't stop his restructuring, they would wipe out the entire Moretti family—you, me, every captain on the South Side. I made a choice, Adrian! A cold, hard choice to save the family! I traded one branch of the tree to save the roots!"
"And Sofia?" Adrian asked, his scar throbbing violently. "And a three-month-old child?"
"Sofia was smart. She knew too much," Victor said without a shred of regret. "And the boy... a child of Michael’s would always be a threat. A rally point for the loyalists who thought your father’s old ways were better than mine. Heller was supposed to clean it all up in one clean stroke on the highway. Simple. A tragic robbery-gone-wrong by a rogue street gang. But Heller panicked when the nurse ran off with the kid."
Victor stood up slowly, leaning over the table, pressing his hands against the polished wood.
"Look at the big picture, Adrian!" Victor urged, his voice filled with a desperate, magnetic charisma. "Michael is gone. Sofia is gone. We cannot bring them back. But you and I? Together, we hold Chicago in the palm of our hands. The Commission respects me, and they fear you. You give me the boy. We send him away—to an orphanage in Europe, somewhere he will never know the name Moretti. We tell the family we found Michael’s killers, we execute a few low-level street thugs to satisfy honor, and we rule this city together for the next twenty years!"
Adrian sat in absolute silence as his uncle spoke. He looked at the old man’s face, searching for a single trace of the uncle who had taught him how to fish on Lake Michigan, the man who had held him when his father died. There was nothing left. Only greed, power, and cold, calcified vanity.
"You're right about one thing, Victor," Adrian said softly, standing up from his chair.
Victor’s eyes lit up with a flicker of hope. "You see reason?"
"Family is the only thing that lasts," Adrian said. He pulled the Sig Sauer from his belt, raised it with a fluid, effortless motion, and pointed it directly at Victor’s forehead. "And you aren't family anymore."
Victor’s face went white. "Adrian, wait! You can't kill me! The captains will revolt! The Commission will declare war—"
BANG.
The heavy roar of the un-suppressed gunshot shattered the quiet of the dining room.
The bullet struck Victor precisely between the eyes. The elder mobster was thrown backward by the force of the shot, his chair tipping over, his body crashing heavily onto the Persian rug beside the stone fireplace.
The silver Saint Christopher medal remained on the table, gleaming in the soft firelight.
Adrian didn't look down at the body. He re-engaged the safety of his pistol, slipped it back into his shoulder holster, and turned toward the dining room doors.
The doors swung open instantly. Mason stood in the hallway, three heavy-set enforcers behind him, their weapons drawn. They looked past Adrian at the lifeless body of Victor Moretti lying near the hearth.
Not a single man moved. Not a single man raised an objection.
"Clean this up," Adrian commanded, his voice cold and absolute. "Call a meeting of all captains at the warehouse on 4th Street for two in the morning. Tell them Uncle Victor had a sudden, fatal heart attack. And tell them I am now the sole head of the Moretti family."
"Yes, Boss," Mason said, bowing his head respectfully. "And the cop? Detective Heller?"
Adrian paused near the doorway, his eyes dark with a promise of terrible violence. "Find him, Mason. I don't care if he's buried in a hole in Arizona or hiding in a church in Canada. Bring him to me alive. I have a debt to pay for my brother."
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"Consider it done," Mason replied.
Adrian turned and walked down the long, carpeted hallway toward the private wing of the estate, leaving the blood and death of the dining room behind him.
