Chapter 8 - The Syndicate's Banquet
The Grand Ballroom of the historic Drake Hotel on Michigan Avenue was an ocean of crystal, gold leaf, and black velvet.
Three hundred of the most powerful people in the Midwest were gathered beneath the towering chandeliers: mafia capos, corrupt aldermen, high-ranking police officials, and corporate oligarchs who laundered the syndicate’s billions. A string quartet played somber, elegant Mozart from the mezzanine, setting an atmosphere of mournful grandeur.
At the front of the ballroom, beneath a massive floral arrangement of white lilies, stood an empty mahogany throne.
Marco Vance stood at the center of the stage, dressed in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo. His bruised eyes were expertly concealed beneath theatrical makeup. In his hand, he held a crystal glass of Dom Pérignon.
"Friends... brothers... honored guests," Marco announced, his voice amplified by the ballroom's sound system, carrying an air of solemn tragedy.
The room fell completely silent. Capos from Detroit, New York, and Cleveland leaned forward, watching the young prince prepare to claim the kingdom.
"Tonight, our hearts are broken," Marco spoke, placing a hand over his heart. "Don Vincent Moretti was more than our leader. He was my father in spirit. His sudden, tragic passing has left a void in this city that can never truly be filled."
A few older capos bowed their heads in respectful silence.
"But Chicago cannot remain without a shepherd," Marco continued, his voice growing stronger, more authoritative. "The wolves are at our borders. The Russian syndicates smell weakness. We must project absolute, unified strength. In accordance with my uncle’s final wishes—which he dictated to me on his deathbed—I humbly accept the burden of the Moretti seat."
Marco raised his glass high toward the chandeliers. "To Vincent Moretti! May his legacy live through me!"
"TO VINCENT MORETTI!" the crowd echoed, hundreds of glasses rising into the golden light.
Before a single drop of champagne could touch Marco's lips, the string quartet ceased playing with a discordant screech.
In the hotel’s subterranean power room, Elena Ramos slammed the master breakers down.
*CLACK!*
The entire Drake Hotel was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
Gasps and shouts of alarm erupted across the ballroom. Wine glasses shattered on marble floors. The sudden darkness was suffocating, heavy with the immediate, visceral terror that every mafioso carried in his bones.
"Security!" Marco screamed from the stage, dropping his champagne glass. "Bring up the emergency generators! Secure the exits!"
For ten agonizing seconds, nothing was heard except the heavy breathing of three hundred terrified criminals.
Then, with a deep, mechanical hum, the emergency floodlights flickered to life.
They did not illuminate the whole room. Instead, a single, brilliant white beam from the overhead spotlight cut through the gloom, striking the grand double doors at the back of the ballroom.
The heavy oak doors swung open.
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Standing framed in the doorway was Don Vincent Moretti.
***
