Chapter 9 - The Lake Forest Massacre
The DeLuca estate in Lake Forest was an ostentatious, gated palace built with drug money and extortion. Tonight, the grand dining hall was filled with laughter, clinking champagne glasses, and thick clouds of Cuban cigar smoke. Salvatore DeLuca, an overweight, arrogant man in his late fifties with slicked-back silver hair, sat at the head of the mahogany table.
"To the new order of Chicago!" Salvatore toasted, raising his glass to the eight corrupt syndicate capos seated around him. "With Dante Moretti broken by grief and his bloodline wiped out, the Commission belongs to us!"
The men cheered, clinking their glasses.
Suddenly, the power cut out.
The entire mansion plunged into pitch darkness. The heavy classical music playing on the sound system died instantly, replaced by the ominous sound of howling wind outside.
"What the hell?" Salvatore barked, slamming his glass down. "Tony! Check the circuit breakers!"
No one answered.
Then, the heavy front oak doors of the mansion were blown inward with a thunderous explosion of C4.
The blast wave shattered the crystal chandeliers into a thousand falling shards. Before the smoke could clear, gunfire erupted in terrifying, disciplined bursts. Suppressed rifles tore through the darkness with mathematical precision. One by one, DeLuca’s bodyguards collapsed before they could even draw their sidearms.
The backup emergency floodlights flickered on, casting a harsh, yellow glare over the room.
Walking through the blown-out doorway was Dante Moretti.
He wore an all-black tactical overcoat. In his right hand, he carried a 12-gauge combat shotgun; in his left, he dragged a bloodied, chained figure by the collar.
He threw the figure onto the Persian rug in front of the dining table.
Salvatore recoiled in horror. It was Vanessa. Her designer dress was torn to shreds, her face swollen, her spirit completely annihilated. Behind Dante walked twenty heavily armed Moretti hitmen, their weapons trained on every capo at the table.
"D-Dante?!" Salvatore stammered, his glass slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor. "This... this is a violation of the Commission rules! You can’t attack a Don in his home!"
Dante stepped forward, the barrel of his shotgun smoking slightly.
"You sent poison into my home, Salvatore," Dante said, his voice flat, emotionless, like the toll of a funeral bell. "You paid this whore to murder my wife. You sent hitmen into a hospital maternity ward to execute two infants in their incubators."
The capos around the table turned pale, looking at Salvatore with sudden dread. In the mafia code, targeting pregnant women and infants was an unforgivable sin—a death sentence without trial.
"I didn't... Dante, Marcus lied! It wasn't me!" Salvatore scrambled backward, reaching under his chair for his hidden revolver.
Dante didn't even raise the shotgun. He simply signaled with his left hand.
A sniper round from the treeline outside crashed through the double-paned window, obliterating Salvatore’s right shoulder in a cloud of gore. Salvatore shrieked, falling onto the table, knocking over wine bottles and silver platters.
Dante walked up to the head of the table. He grabbed Salvatore by his silver hair, pulling his head back until their eyes met.
"My wife survived," Dante whispered softly into Salvatore’s ear. "My son and daughter survived. But you... you die tonight. And your empire dies with you."
Dante turned to his men. "Leave Vanessa and Salvatore in the dining room. Nail the doors shut from the outside. Burn the estate to the ground."
Vanessa let out a horrific scream, clawing at Dante’s boots. "Dante! Please! No! Don't leave me with him! Dante!"
May you like
Dante didn't look back. He walked out into the cold Chicago rain as his men kicked over cans of industrial accelerant and ignited the mansion. Behind him, the night sky was painted in brilliant, raging orange flames, consuming every trace of the betrayal that had threatened his family.
***
