Chapter 3: The Starlight Reckoning
Chapter 3: The Starlight Reckoning
The Starlight Lounge was a relic of the 1970s, a neon-drenched dive bar on the outskirts of Rosemont that smelled of stale beer, cheap cigars, and old money. At 5:15 AM, the neon sign was buzzing against the grey pre-dawn sky. Inside, the main bar was empty, but down a narrow staircase behind the commercial refrigerators, the underground casino was alive with the tense, high-stakes energy of a coup d'état.
Marcus Reed stood at the head of a green felt craps table, surrounded by six heavily armed mercenaries he had hired with stolen corporate funds. Across from him sat Anthony Moretti, an aging North Side underboss with silver hair and a silk tie that didn't hide the predatory glint in his eyes.
"You said Callaway would be dead by midnight, Marcus," Moretti said, swirling a glass of whiskey. "Instead, I see his men patrolling the perimeter of my docks. You botched the hit, and now you want my protection?"
"The bomb didn't go off because that bitch of a maid saw the night crew," Marcus snarled, slamming his fist on the table. "But it doesn't matter! Callaway is distracted. He’s sitting at St. Matthew like a broken man, waiting for a servant to die. He’s vulnerable, Anthony. If we strike his central depository in the Loop right now, his whole infrastructure collapses."
"Is that what you think, Marcus?"
The voice didn't come from the staircase. It came from the shadows behind the old slot machines at the back of the room.
Marcus froze, his hand dropping toward the holstered pistol at his hip. The mercenaries raised their assault rifles, but before their fingers could find the triggers, the emergency exit doors behind them were blown off their hinges with tactical charges.
A dozen men in black combat gear, bearing the tactical insignia of the Callaway vanguard, flooded the room like a localized storm. Within three seconds, the mercenaries were on their knees, their weapons kicked across the concrete floor.
Victor Callaway stepped out of the shadows, a heavy silver revolver held loosely at his side. He wasn't wearing his coat anymore. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing the old scars from his early days on the South Side. His face was entirely devoid of human warmth.
"Victor," Moretti said, raising his hands slowly, his face turning the color of ash. "This is a misunderstanding. I was just listening to the rat. I hadn't agreed to anything."
"Sit down, Anthony," Victor said without looking at him. His eyes were locked entirely on Marcus Reed.
Marcus backed away until his spine hit the craps table. "Victor... look, it was business. The Outfit needed a change. You were getting soft. You spent millions on community programs in Pilsen, you were looking at legitimate logistics... we’re wolves, Victor! We aren't supposed to be corporate executives!"
"You think I'm soft because I don't bleed my people dry?" Victor asked, stepping closer, his shoes crunching on the broken glass from the door explosion. "You think I'm soft because I treat the people who build this city with respect?"
"You're tracking a maid!" Marcus screamed, his arrogance turning into a desperate, high-pitched panic. "You risked your whole empire for a girl who cleans your toilets! She’s nothing, Victor! A nobody from the West Side!"
Victor stopped two feet from Marcus. The silence in the room was heavy enough to crush a man.
"She has more courage in her little finger than you have in your entire bloodline, Marcus," Victor said, his voice dropping into a register that made even Moretti shiver. "She stood in front of me knowing I could have killed her just for speaking out of turn. She saved my life. And you put your hands on her."
Marcus lunged, reaching for a hidden knife in his boot, but Victor was faster. With a movement that was terrifyingly fluid, he brought the heavy barrel of the silver revolver down across Marcus’s jaw. The sound of bone cracking echoed through the room. Marcus collapsed onto the felt table, groaning as blood pooled around his ruined teeth.
Victor didn't shoot him. He looked down at him with an expression of pure disgust.
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"Death is too quick for you, Marcus," Victor whispered. "Dominic, take him to the warehouse. Let him experience the exact amount of fear Emily felt in that alley. Then hand what’s left of him to the feds with the ledgers of every illegal operation he ever ran behind my back."
Victor turned to Moretti, who was trembling in his seat. "The North Side belongs to me now, Anthony. If I see your face south of the river after today, I won't use a revolver. I’ll use a shovel."
