Chapter 4 - The House of Vultures
The Marcone Estate was a sprawling, gated mansion sitting on five acres of land in the affluent suburbs of Chicago Heights.
Sal "The Vulture" Marcone had spent twenty years building his personal fortune on the misery of others—skimming off the docks, running illegal loan houses, and squeezing small business owners dry. But he had always been smart enough to pay his thirty percent tax to the Moretti throne on time every month.
Until tonight.
By 2:00 AM, the rain had settled into a steady, freezing mist.
I parked my SUV at the base of the long, cobblestone driveway leading up to the mansion. I didn't bring an army. I brought six of my personal guard—men who had served my father before me, men who wore black coats and carried automatic weapons wrapped in dark canvas bags.
Standing at the top of the marble steps was Sal Marcone himself, surrounded by thirty armed enforcers holding shotguns and assault rifles.
Sal was fifty years old, thick-necked, wearing a pinstripe suit that couldn't hide his bulging belly. His face was red with fury, his fingers twitching near his waist.
"Rocco!" Sal bellowed across the courtyard, his voice amplified by the quiet night air. "You came alone? You shot my men at the plant! You broke my brother’s hand! Over what? A couple of deadbeats who couldn't pay their interest on a street loan?"
I walked up the driveway slowly, my six guards trailing two paces behind me. I stopped at the foot of the marble steps, looking up at Sal and his thirty men.
"The woman on 4th Street," I said, my voice cutting through the mist like a razor. "She owed five thousand dollars to a local shopkeeper. You bought the note, raised the interest to fifty thousand, stripped her house clean, took her child, and left her to die on a cold floor with a Moretti black card beside her."
Sal sneered, spitting into the bushes. "So what? She couldn't pay! That’s how business works on the East Side! We take collateral! You sit up in your high tower downtown taking your thirty percent, Rocco, but we do the dirty work in the gutter!"
"You don't do dirty work, Sal," I said softly. "You steal cribs from babies and strike seven-year-old girls."
Sal's eyes narrowed. "They're nobody! They're street trash! You're gonna start a blood feud with the Marcone family—the biggest earner in your eastern sector—over a starving kid and her pathetic mother?"
I reached into my inner coat pocket and pulled out the black card I had taken from the kitchen floor on 4th Street.
"This card bears my crest," I said, holding it up so every man on that porch could see it. "It means my honor. It means that when someone sees this card, they know the word of Rocco Moretti is absolute."
I dropped the card into a puddle at my feet.
"You dragged my crest through the mud to cover your own sickening greed," I said. "You aren't a mobster, Sal. You're a parasite."
Sal's face turned purple. He raised his hand, pointing at me. "Kill him! Kill them all! The Moretti throne is empty tonight!"
None of his men moved.
Sal looked around, his mouth hanging open in shock. "What are you idiots waiting for? Shoot him!"
The senior enforcer standing to Sal's left—a gray-haired veteran named Frank—slowly lowered his shotgun.
"Sal," Frank said quietly, his voice trembling. "The Don isn't asking for a vote. Look down the street."
Sal turned his head.
From the fog down the road, headlights began to appear. One by one. Ten. Twenty. Fifty black vehicles rolled silently up the winding suburban street, blocking every exit, surrounding the perimeter of the Marcone Estate. Hundreds of armed men in black coats stepped out into the rain, filling the darkness with the silent, lethal weight of the entire Moretti syndicate.
May you like
Every captain from the North Side, the West Side, and the Harbor had arrived.
"You thought this was about a street debt, Sal?" I asked, stepping up the first marble stair. "This is about who runs Chicago. And I don't share my city with vultures."
