Chapter 5 - The Purge
The battle for the Marcone Estate didn't last ten minutes.
When the first shot was fired, Sal’s men realized they weren't fighting a rivalry; they were being executed by an empire. Half of his crew dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, raising their hands in surrender. The rest were cut down where they stood on the marble steps.
I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the mansion, stepping into the grand foyer.
Sal Marcone was scrambling up the curved staircase, dragging a heavy leather safe deposit box behind him, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.
"Rocco! Wait! Wait!" Sal screamed, slipping on the polished marble step and tumbling backward onto the landing floor. He scrambled on his hands and knees until his back hit the wooden banister. "Take the money! There's three million in bearer bonds in this box! Take it all! Just let me leave the city! I'll go to Florida! I'll never come back!"
I stepped onto the landing, stopping two feet from him.
"Where did this money come from, Sal?" I asked softly.
"It's... it's earnings! From the docks! From the loans!"
"It came from mothers who couldn't buy food," I said, my voice utterly devoid of warmth. "It came from fathers who worked twelve-hour shifts while your thugs threatened their children. It came from the blood of people who had nothing left to lose."
I drew my heavy silver pistol.
"Rocco, please!" Sal wept, clutching his hands together in a desperate plea. "We’re blood! We’ve served the Morettis for thirty years!"
"My father served the people of this city," I said, pressing the cold steel barrel against Sal's forehead. "You served yourself."
BANG.
The gunshot echoed through the massive, empty mansion, snapping the silence of the night.
Sal slumped against the banister, his eyes wide and lifeless, sliding down into a heap on the marble floor.
I turned my back on his body, walking down the staircase as Luca entered the grand foyer, holding a satellite phone in his hand.
"It's done, Boss," Luca said, adjusting his blood-stained gloves. "Sal's crews across the East Side have been disarmed and disbanded. The territory is secured under direct control of the central throne. What about the stolen assets?"
"Every item in that meatpacking plant—every TV, every sofa, every cent of stolen cash—returns to the families it was taken from by noon tomorrow," I ordered. "If we can't find the owners, distribute it to the orphanages on 4th Street."
"And the Marcone estate?"
"Sell it," I said, stepping past him into the cool night air. "Put every dollar from the sale into a private trust fund for Sarah Miller and her children."
Luca smiled faintly—a rare, genuine expression on the face of a hardened enforcer. "Understood, Don Moretti."
I walked out onto the driveway, where fifty black sedans stood silently under the flickering streetlights. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the sky clear, dark, and still.
"Where to now, Boss?" my driver asked, opening the rear door of my SUV.
May you like
I paused, looking back toward the skyline of downtown Chicago glowing in the distant night.
"St. Jude’s Hospital," I said. "I have a promise to keep."
