Chapter 15 - THE TAYLOR STREET SHOWDOWN
The social club on Taylor Street looked like an ordinary brick storefront from the outside,
featuring a faded sign for an import-export business that hadn't imported anything since 1974.
Inside,
behind the reinforced steel doors,
sat the remaining capos of the old Chicago Syndicate.
We didn't knock.
Nico blew the front door off its hinges with a breaching charge,
the explosive blast echoing down the quiet residential street like a thunderclap.
Smoke billowed through the doorway as our tactical team swarmed the interior,
weapons drawn and ready.
Freeze! Hands on your heads!
Three older men sitting around a poker table scrambled backward in sheer panic,
scattering chips and cash across the green felt.
Sitting at the head of the table was Salvatore Marcone,
the aging boss of the Syndicate,
puffing calmly on an expensive Cuban cigar.
Marco Vitelli,
Marcone rasped,
exhaling a cloud of blue smoke.
I told my boys you’d come stomping in here like a bull in a china shop.
You sent the photograph,
Marcone,
I said,
walking up to the table and pressing the muzzle of my Glock against his forehead.
You threatened my family.
Marcone didn't flinch.
He just smiled a toothless,
arrogant smile.
You think you can walk away from the life just because you built some glass towers and donated to orphans,
Marco?
The life owns you.
It owns your money,
your ports,
and your blood.
I don't own the life anymore,
Marcone,
I whispered,
tightening my finger on the trigger guard.
The life owns me? No.
I own the city.
And anyone who looks at my wife or my daughter gets buried in unmarked concrete.
Marcone’s smile finally faltered as he looked into my eyes and saw the absolute,
terrifying void within them.
What do you want,
Vitelli,
he choked out.
Three things,
I said coldly.
First,
you sign over all your remaining shipping shares to Vitelli Logistics at zero cost.
Second,
you pack your bags and catch a one-way flight to Sicily tonight.
And third,
if so much as a whisper of my family reaches your ears ever again,
I won't just destroy your syndicate.
I’ll erase your name from the history books entirely.
Marcone swallowed hard,
his hands trembling as he reached across the table and signed the transfer papers Nico shoved in front of him.
It’s done,
Marcone whispered.
Now get out of my sight.
Nico hauled him up by his collar and shoved him toward the back exit.
The Chicago waterfront belonged to Vitelli Logistics,
lock,
May you like
stock,
and barrel.
