Chapter 6 - The Poker Game at Cermak RoadThe rain was coming down in sheets, turning the industrial wasteland around Cermak Road into a glistening maze of black reflections and flashing neon signs.
The warehouse club looked like an abandoned freight depot from the outside, but inside, it was a palace of sin. High-stakes poker tables, imported velvet drapes, armed guards at every corner, and the heavy, intoxicating smell of cigar smoke and expensive scotch filled the air.
At the center of the VIP lounge sat Marcus Vance—a heavy-set, slick-haired man in his late fifties with cold, reptilian eyes and diamond rings flashing on both hands.
He was laughing heartily as he raked in a pile of poker chips, surrounded by four of his largest enforcers.
Then the heavy iron doors at the end of the warehouse swung open.
The room went dead silent.
The jazz music cut out instantly. Every head turned toward the entrance.
Walking through the double doors wasn't an army of masked gunmen.
It was Ethan Callahan.
He wore a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets, his expression carved from gray granite. Flanking him on his left was one of his massive bodyguards carrying a heavy metal briefcase.
And flanking him on his right... was me.
I wore a dark, elegant emerald-green silk dress that Mrs. Higgins had somehow procured from a boutique in downtown Chicago, my hair swept back into a sleek chignon, my chin held high to mask the fact that my knees were shaking so hard I thought I might collapse.
Marcus Vance froze, his cigar hovering halfway to his mouth. For a second, genuine confusion flickered across his reptilian eyes, quickly replaced by a smug, greasy smile.
"Well, well, well," Vance drawled, standing up slowly from the poker table and pushing his chair back. "Ethan Callahan. To what do I owe the absolute lack of pleasure? Did you finally decide to sell me those shipping berths down in South Chicago?"
Ethan didn't stop walking until he reached the edge of the poker table. I stood right beside him, my heart hammering like a jackhammer against my ribs.
"Keep your trash, Marcus," Ethan said smoothly, his voice echoing off the high tin roof of the warehouse. "I didn't come here to talk about shipping berths."
Vance’s gaze shifted from Ethan to me. His smile widened into something predatory and obscene.
"Ah," Vance purred, leaning his palms against the felt-covered table. "Little Rachel Morales. I wondered when you’d crawl out of California. Did you bring your father's ledger, or do I need to send my boys back to visit your sister’s townhome?"
"I brought something better, Marcus," I heard myself say. My voice didn't shake. Miraculously, it didn't shake at all.
Vance raised an eyebrow. "Is that right? And what would that be?"
Ethan nodded to his bodyguard.
The massive man stepped forward and slammed the heavy metal briefcase onto the center of the poker table, right on top of Vance’s chips. With a sharp clack, the latches snapped open.
Inside wasn't a ledger.
Inside were neat, stacked piles of federal arrest warrants, bank freezing orders issued by the U.S. Treasury Department, and sworn confessions signed by three of Vance’s top lieutenants detailing every extortion, drug shipment, and municipal bribe executed over the last decade.
Vance stared down at the open briefcase, and the color drained completely out of his face. His cigar slipped from his fingers, landing directly onto the green felt table and burning a small, smoking hole into the cloth.
"What... what is this?" Vance choked out, his hands beginning to tremble as he snatched up a federal asset-seizure document.
"This," Ethan said, leaning forward and resting his knuckles on the table, bringing his face inches from Vance's, "is your eviction notice."
"You can't do this!" Vance screamed, his voice cracking with rising panic as he turned to look at the other syndicate bosses seated around the room. "He’s railroading us! He’s giving us to the Feds!"
"I'm not giving you to the Feds, Marcus," Ethan corrected quietly. "The Feds are already outside. In about thirty seconds, forty agents from the FBI and IRS are going to kick down those rolling doors."
As if on cue, the distant, muffled sound of police sirens began wailing through the rain outside, growing louder and closer with terrifying speed.
Vance’s enforcers reached instinctively for their shoulder holsters.
"Don't do it," Ethan whispered, not even turning his head to look at them.
From the shadows around the perimeter of the warehouse, twenty of Ethan’s private security men stepped out from behind the shipping crates, raising automatic weapons with laser sights locked squarely onto Vance’s guards.
The enforcers froze, their hands hovering helplessly in mid-air.
Vance spun back toward me, his face twisted into an ugly mask of pure hatred. He lunged across the table, his fingers clawing toward my throat. "You little bitch—!"
Before Vance’s fingers could travel two inches, Ethan moved.
It wasn't a dramatic Hollywood punch. It was a terrifying, hyper-efficient display of lethal force. Ethan grabbed Vance by the throat, hoisted his heavy frame entirely off the floor, and slammed him down onto the poker table with a bone-crushing crash that splintered the mahogany legs and sent poker chips flying like confetti across the room.
Vance lay gasping, wheezing, staring up at Ethan with eyes bulging in sheer terror as the heavy barrel of Ethan's suppressed pistol pressed gently against the bridge of his nose.
"Touch her again," Ethan murmured, his voice so cold it felt like falling into an icy lake, "and I won't wait for the Feds."
The front rolling doors of the warehouse blew inward with a deafening crash.
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Flashing red and blue police lights flooded the cavernous space, accompanied by the booming voices of federal agents shouting orders through megaphones.
"FBI! Federal agents! Nobody move!"
