Chapter 6 - Blood on the Pavement
The morning sky was gray and suffocating as the clock struck nine.
Outside the Chicago Board of Trade, a deafening roar echoed through the concrete canyon of LaSalle Street. Hundreds of protesters had gathered, carrying pre-printed signs that read: *BRING BACK DOMINIC VALE* and *STOP THE CORPORATE WITCH HUNT.* Television news vans from NBC, CBS, and Fox had satellite dishes raised, broadcasting the chaotic spectacle live across the country.
Dominic stood on the raised steps of the building, holding a megaphone. He had shaved, wore an expensive black wool overcoat, and had two burly bodyguards standing at his back.
"They want to erase thirty years of our family history!" Dominic shouted into the microphone, his voice amplified across the plaza. The crowd cheered on cue. "They want to hand this company over to out-of-touch coastal investors who don't care about Chicago! But we will not stand down! We will take Vale Logistics back!"
Just as the crowd erupted into another rehearsed chant, the low, synchronized rumble of heavy diesel engines began to vibrate through the pavement.
Dominic paused, lowering the megaphone.
From both ends of LaSalle Street, an immense convoy of massive, eighteen-wheel commercial freight trucks came into view. Their sleek, chrome grilles shone under the morning light, each cab bearing the unmistakable blue-and-gold emblem of Vale Logistics.
The trucks didn't stop. They systematically formed a colossal steel perimeter, completely encircling the plaza and cutting off the perimeter of the protest. Air horns blasted—a thunderous, deafening sound that shook the surrounding skyscrapers and drowned out Dominic’s megaphone entirely.
The cab door of the lead truck swung open, and a burly, bearded man in a high-visibility jacket climbed down. It was Frank Kowalski—the legendary president of the Teamsters Local 705.
Behind him, three black Cadillacs pulled into the cleared lane.
I stepped out of the center car, immaculate in an ivory wool coat, my head held high, flanked by Richard Mercer and our chief legal counsel.
Dominic’s face turned gray. His hands trembled as he watched Frank Kowalski walk straight past him, completely ignoring him, and extend a massive, calloused hand to me.
"Good morning, Madam CEO," Frank boomed, loud enough for every television camera to pick up the audio.
I shook his hand firmly. "Good morning, Frank. Are the freight routes running on schedule?"
"Every single truck in the Midwest is rolling, Eleanor," Frank announced into the forest of microphones that swarmed toward us. "And on behalf of twelve thousand transport workers across this country, I want to make one thing crystal clear to the media: Dominic Vale never gave a damn about us. Eleanor Vance designed our pension funds, Eleanor Vance protected our safety protocols, and as long as Eleanor Vance sits in the corner office, the union stands with her one hundred percent!"
The paid crowd behind Dominic fell into stunned silence. Some of the hired demonstrators actually began dropping their signs onto the concrete.
I turned slowly, fixing my gaze on Dominic, who was frozen on the steps above.
I climbed the stone stairs toward him. The bodyguards took one look at the towering truck drivers walking behind me and discreetly stepped aside, leaving Dominic entirely alone.
"You shouldn't have called the media, Dominic," I said softly, standing three feet away from him.
"Eleanor... don't do this," Dominic whispered desperately, all his bravado evaporating in an instant. "We can settle this quietly. Sterling is offering two hundred million for the tech patents. We could take the money and start over—anywhere in the world!"
"You still don't understand, do you?" I asked, looking at him with cold pity. "I didn't build Vale Logistics for the money. I built it to prove that a woman could out-think every arrogant man who thought he could own her."
I signaled to the plainclothes officers who had just emerged from the crowd behind me.
"Mr. Dominic Vale," an agent in a dark windbreaker announced, flashing a federal badge. "You are under arrest for securities fraud, wire fraud, and grand larceny. Please put your hands behind your back."
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The cameras went wild. The shutter clicks sounded like machine-gun fire as the silver handcuffs snapped around Dominic’s wrists—the very wrists that, forty-eight hours ago, had worn custom silver cuff links for Chicago's most exclusive elite.
***
