Chapter 8 - The Eve of War
The Drake Hotel stood like an illuminated mountain of granite at the head of Michigan Avenue, its grand ballroom glowing with the light of three dozen crystal chandeliers.
Outside, the snow was falling heavily, but the driveway was packed with gleaming black limousines. Armed guards in tuxedo jackets stood at every entrance, their hands resting discreetly inside their coats.
Tonight was the coronation.
Inside the ballroom, two hundred of the most powerful and ruthless figures in the Midwest mingled over champagne and beluga caviar. Politicians, judges, corrupt police captains, and syndicate captains laughed beneath the gilded ceiling.
At the center of the raised dais stood Silvio Marcone—a rotund, silver-haired patriarch with rings on every finger—beside Nolan, who wore a fresh tuxedo with a heavy silk scarf strategically draped to hide the swelling of his broken jaw.
“A toast!” Silvio called out, raising a crystal flute to the crowd. “To new leadership! To the unification of the northern and southern districts! To our dear, departed friend Asa Thornton, whose tragic passing opened the door to a more profitable peace!”
The crowd cheered, glasses clinking across the room.
Nolan raised his glass, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across his bruised face. “To the new order!”
Before the glasses could reach their lips, the massive double doors at the back of the ballroom were blasted off their hinges.
*BOOM.*
The shockwave rattled the crystal chandeliers, sending a shower of glass pendants crashing into the champagne fountains below. Screams erupted as women in silk dresses ducked behind tables and men reached frantically for their weapons.
Smoke poured through the grand entrance, lit from behind by the flashing strobes of twelve black SUVs idling in the lobby corridor.
Through the haze of smoke and plaster dust, three figures stepped forward.
On the left stood Dante, carrying an automatic shotgun leveled at the dais.
On the right stood five armored lieutenants from the First Ward, their rifles raised in tactical formation.
And in the center walked Asa Thornton.
He was magnificent. The black tuxedo clung to his broad shoulders, his posture regal, his silver eyes sweeping the frozen room with the disdain of a king inspecting a pigsty.
And on his arm, her chin held high, her emerald dress rustling against the marble floor, was Marin Callaway.
The silence that fell over the ballroom was heavier than a tombstone.
Silvio Marcone dropped his champagne flute. The crystal shattered on the polished oak floor with a crisp, lonely ring.
Nolan’s face turned the color of curdled milk. His knees buckled, and he grabbed the edge of the banquet table to keep from collapsing.
“Asa…” Silvio whispered, his voice trembling across the silent hall. “You… you were buried in the Calumet.”
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“You shouldn't believe everything a dead man tells you, Silvio,” Asa said, his voice echoing off the high ceilings with terrifying clarity. “Especially when the dead man is standing on your stage.”
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