Chapter 5 - The Fall of the Irish King
The Harbor Club was a private, wood-paneled establishment sitting at the end of Pier 21, reserved exclusively for the city’s oldest political and industrial elites.
At 2:00 PM, the rain returned, sweeping over the gray waves of Lake Michigan.
Inside the club’s private dining room, Arthur O’Malley—a sixty-year-old man with thinning red hair, a florid complexion, and a ruthless reputation—sat at the head of a massive mahogany table. Surrounding him were ten armed lieutenants and his chief legal counsel.
The heavy double doors swept open.
Mikhail Volkov stepped into the room alone. Unarmed. Unaccompanied by guards. He wore his heavy black overcoat, his hands tucked casually into his pockets.
"Volkov," O’Malley sneered, puffing on an expensive Cuban cigar. "You’ve got nerve coming here alone after what your goons did to my boys at that cheap grease-trap diner last night."
Mikhail walked calmly to the center of the room. He pulled out a leather chair, sat down across from O’Malley, and rested his hands on the polished table.
"Your boys broke into an independent business," Volkov said softly. "They threatened an innocent woman."
"She was harboring your brat!" O’Malley barked, slamming his fist on the table. "You’ve been squeezing my supply lines on the South Side for six months, Volkov! We took your kid to force a negotiation! And then some local broad hides him and hands him back to you? She made herself a target!"
Mikhail leaned forward. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Arthur," Volkov whispered, his pale blue eyes pinning the older man to his seat. "Do you know why I am here alone?"
O’Malley narrowed his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. "Because you know if your men bring guns onto Pier 21, the harbor police will arrest every last one of you."
"No," Volkov smiled—a terrifying, empty expression. "I came alone because I wanted to look into your eyes when you realized that you have lost everything."
Volkov pulled a thin silver remote control from his pocket and pressed a button.
On the large flat-screen television mounted on the wall above the fireplace, a live news broadcast flickered to life.
A breathless reporter stood outside the O’Malley Syndicate’s primary logistics headquarters on 47th Street.
"...we are receiving reports of a massive joint federal raid currently underway at the O’Malley Freight Terminals," the reporter announced over the sound of police sirens. "Federal agents, accompanied by the Port Authority and the IRS, have seized three container ships containing unregistered arms and over forty million dollars in unregistered bonds..."
O’Malley’s face drained of color. He stood up so fast his leather chair knocked back against the wall. "What... what is this?!"
"While your boys were busy hunting a maid in a diner," Volkov said calmly, standing up, "my legal team was handing twenty years of your unredacted shipping manifests to the United States District Attorney. Signed by your own Chief Financial Officer, who accepted a very generous relocation package to New Zealand two hours ago."
"You bastard!" O’Malley roared, reaching under his jacket for a revolver.
BANG.
The glass skylight above the dining room shattered inward.
A high-caliber sniper round tore through the mahogany table inches from O’Malley’s hand, blowing a hole clean through the wood.
Red laser sights instantly rained down from the shattered ceiling, painting geometric dots across the chests of every single one of O’Malley’s lieutenants.
"The building is surrounded, Arthur," Volkov said softly, picking up his overcoat. "Federal warrants have been issued for you and every man at this table. You have approximately three minutes before federal marshals breach those doors."
Volkov walked toward the exit, pausing beside O’Malley, who was trembling violently, surrounded by red laser dots.
May you like
"You threatened my son," Volkov whispered into the old man's ear. "And you tried to burn the home of the woman I intend to make my wife. Consider yourself lucky that I am letting the government keep you alive."
Volkov turned and walked out of the room, the sound of federal battering rams echoing down the grand hallway as he stepped into the rain.
