Chapter 4 - The Commission
The underground council chamber beneath the historic Chicago Cultural Center was stone, dark, and frozen in time. High above, vaulted ceilings held grand brass chandeliers, casting long, dramatic shadows over a massive mahogany round table where the leaders of Chicago’s five crime syndicates sat.
I stood beside Victor on the elevated marble gallery overlooking the table. I wore the black wool trousers and ivory silk blouse, my hair pulled back tightly, my chin raised high.
Standing on the opposite side of the chamber were Derek Hail—his wrist encased in a black medical brace—and his father, Richard Hail, a hawk-nosed old man with cold, greedy eyes. Surrounding the room were thirty armed guards, their hands resting on their weapons.
At the center of the table sat Don Carmine Lucchesi, an eighty-year-old mafia patriarch who served as the chairman of the commission.
Don Carmine slammed a heavy wooden gavel onto the table. The sharp crack echoed through the cavernous chamber like thunder.
"This emergency session of the Chicago Commission is called to order," Carmine rasped, his ancient voice echoing clearly. "Richard Hail accuses Don Victor Salvatore of unprovoked assault, kidnapping, and threatening the stability of our joint shipping operations. Victor... speak."
Richard Hail immediately stepped forward, pointing a finger at Victor. "There is nothing to discuss! Salvatore assaulted my son in front of three hundred witnesses at a public gala! He took my son's legal fiancée by force! He’s acting like a rogue dog, Carmine! If you don't strip him of his territory tonight, we are taking this to the streets!"
Derek stepped up beside his father, playing the part of the grieving victim perfectly. "Lena was forced into his car under duress! Look at her! She’s terrified! Salvatore is keeping her isolated from her family!"
Don Carmine turned his heavy, ancient eyes toward Victor. "Is this true, Victor? Did you take the girl against her will?"
Victor stepped up to the brass railing of the gallery, his arms resting relaxed over the marble ledge. He looked down at the assembled crime bosses as if they were children sitting at a school desk.
"I didn't kidnap anyone," Victor said smoothly. "Lena Marlo came with me voluntarily to seek asylum under the Salvatore name."
"Asylum?!" Richard Hail snorted loudly. "She’s a civilian! She doesn't have the right to seek syndicate asylum!"
"She has every right," Victor countered, his voice dropping into a cold, lethal register. "Because as of midnight last night... Lena Marlo is my betrothed."
A collective gasp swept through the chamber.
Derek’s jaw dropped open. "You're lying! She’s engaged to ME!"
"She was engaged to a boy who hides his pathetic weakness behind locked doors," Victor sneered, looking directly at Derek.
Victor reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out a thick leather folder, and tossed it off the gallery ledge. The folder landed with a heavy THUD right in the center of the commission's round table, sliding to a stop in front of Don Carmine.
"What is this?" Carmine asked, flipping the folder open.
"Those are the private medical records of Lena Marlo from Saint Anthony's Emergency Room over the last two years," Victor announced clearly, his voice echoing off the stone walls for every boss in the room to hear. "Three visits for fractured ribs. Two visits for severe tissue bruising. Four visits for joint dislocations. All filed under fake names, all paid for in cash from Richard Hail's personal slush fund."
Derek went completely gray. His father, Richard, swallowed hard, his hands beginning to shake.
"Furthermore," Victor continued, stepping back to place his hand gently, possessively against my lower back, "that folder contains forensic evidence that Richard Hail systematically embezzled twelve million dollars from Julian Marlo's estate ten years ago, using forced debt to coerce Miss Marlo into a abusive domestic arrangement."
The room descended into furious murmurs. The other four syndicate bosses leaned in, inspecting the bank statements and medical reports in the folder.
Don Carmine’s face turned into an iron mask of disgust. He looked up from the medical files, his old eyes glaring at Derek and Richard with profound contempt.
"In our world," Carmine growled, his voice thick with ancient tradition, "we wage war against our enemies. We do not torture innocent women under our protection, nor do we steal from our dead partners. Richard... your son is a disgrace."
"Carmine, wait!" Richard panicked, taking a step toward the table. "This is a fabrication! Salvatore forged those papers!"
"The papers are authenticated by my personal investigators, Richard," Victor cut him off, his voice dropping into an absolute death sentence. "And according to the ancient statutes of the Commission... a Don has the right to challenge any man who dishonors a family legacy through cowardice."
Victor reached into his coat, pulled out a black leather glove, and tossed it down onto the stone floor at Derek’s feet.
"A blood duel," Victor declared, his storm-gray eyes burning with lethal intent. "Tomorrow morning at sunrise. The docks at Pier 42. You and me, Derek. No guards. No guns. Just blades."
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Derek stared at the black glove on the floor as if it were a venomous snake. His knees trembled violently; his breath came in short, panicked gasps.
"And if you refuse," Victor added, a slow, terrifying smile curving his lips, "the Commission executes your father for treason tonight, and I hunt you down like the rat you are."
