Chapter 3 - The Summit at the Docks
The private members' club on the edge of the Chicago River smelled of old bourbon, damp concrete, and unexpressed violence.
Salvatore Marcone, a bloated, silver-haired boss of the South Side Outfit, sat at the head of a scarred oak table surrounded by six armed guards. When Vincenzo walked into the room, accompanied not by his usual syndicate enforcers but by me in a tailored emerald dress that cost more than my first car, Marcone’s laughter echoed off the brick walls.
“Russo! Bringing a stray cat to a slaughterhouse?” Marcone mocked, leaning back in his chair. “Where are your killers? Did you bring a maid to clean up the blood we’re about to spill?”
Vincenzo pulled out a chair for me, ignoring Marcone entirely until I was seated. Then, he straightened his jacket and took the seat opposite the South Side boss.
“You touched my containers, Salvatore,” Vincenzo’s voice was velvet-lined poison. “That was a mistake.”
“Those docks belong to us now,” Marcone sneered, signaling his men to step closer. “You’re losing your grip, Vincenzo. Ever since you started chasing ghosts from Sicily, your empire has gone soft. Hand over the northern distribution rights, or your little pet here watches us take everything.”
I looked at Vincenzo. His face was a mask of absolute calm, but his fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic pattern against the arm of his chair.
It was a rhythm.
A cadence.
The exact opening tempo of the Sicilian lullaby my grandmother used to sing.
My heart hammered against my ribs. He wasn’t just waiting—he was testing me. He wanted to see if I understood the language of his world, a world spoken not just in threats, but in patterns.
Without thinking, I cleared my throat softly and began to hum the second verse of the lullaby under my breath.
The sound cut through the tense air of the room like a razor blade.
Marcone stopped laughing. His guards shifted uncomfortably, looking at each other in sudden confusion.
Vincenzo didn’t look at me; he looked directly into Marcone’s eyes as the rhythm of my humming matched the heavy ticking of a wall clock.
“Do you know what that song means, Salvatore?” Vincenzo asked softly.
Marcone’s face drained of color. “What is this nonsense?”
“It’s a lullaby from Corleone,” Vincenzo said, standing up slowly. “It’s what the families sang to their children right before they collected a blood debt. And right now... you’re standing in a room full of men who grew up listening to it.”
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Before Marcone could reach for the gun holstered beneath his jacket, Marco and four hidden Russo operatives slipped out of the shadows behind the pillars, their weapons leveled with terrifying precision.
Vincenzo leaned across the table, his eyes burning with absolute dominance. “The containers are returned by midnight. Or the next song you hear will be your funeral hymn.”
