Chapter 10 - The Ghost of Chicago
The revelation of Vincent’s public coup shifted the entire game from a desperate defense into a surgical counter-offensive.
By declaring Gabriel legally dead on morning television, Vincent had forced the syndicate council into an emergency confirmation vote scheduled for eight o’clock that evening.
Under syndicate tradition, the heads of Chicago’s five major families would meet at the Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel to ratify Vincent’s ascension to the throne.
If the council stamped his appointment, Vincent would gain full legal and financial control over the multi-billion-dollar Moretti empire.
“Vincent thinks he has twelve hours of smooth sailing,” Luca said, laying out architectural blueprints of the Drake Hotel across the steel workbench.
“The entire ballroom will be locked down by Vincent’s personal security force.”
“Over forty armed guards on the perimeter, metal detectors at every entrance, and private elevators reserved exclusively for the family heads.”
“How do you expect to walk in there when half the city thinks you’re in a refrigerated drawer at the morgue?” I asked Gabriel.
Gabriel was standing on his own feet now, slowly pacing the concrete floor of the bunker.
His gait was deliberate, stiff, but undeniably steady.
The poison had been purged from his bloodstream; only muscle fatigue and healing tissue remained.
“I don't need forty men to take back my empire,” Gabriel said, picking up a tailored charcoal three-piece suit that Luca had pulled from an emergency wardrobe vault.
“I only need the truth, a single clean entrance, and the element of total surprise.”
“The council doesn't love Vincent; they fear chaos.”
“The moment they see I am alive, Vincent’s authority evaporates into dust.”
“He won't let you speak,” I warned him, crossing my arms.
“The second you step into that ballroom, his men will shoot first and apologize to the council later.”
Gabriel paused, buttoning the crisp white cuffs of his shirt, and looked over at me with a calculating glint in his eyes.
“Which is why they won't be looking for me at the front door,” Gabriel said.
“They will be looking for medical personnel.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Explain.”
“Don Camillo, the head of the council, is eighty-two years old and travels everywhere with a personal medical team,” Gabriel revealed, a cunning grin spreading across his face.
“His primary physician, Dr. Samuel Wright, happens to be an old friend of my late father.”
“Dr. Wright owes the Moretti family his entire medical career.”
“You want me to infiltrate Don Camillo’s medical entourage,” I deduced, realizing his strategy.
“You have the credentials, the steady nerves, and the professional authority to walk right past the perimeter security with a trauma case,” Gabriel explained, stepping toward me until he stood less than an arm’s length away.
“Inside that trauma case will be the blood tox screens, the recorded audio confession from Dr. Vale’s radio, and a direct video feed connecting to this bunker.”
“You place that evidence directly onto Don Camillo’s table before the vote begins.”
“And where will you be?” I asked, looking up into his dark, dangerous eyes.
“I will be coming through the service elevators right behind you,” Gabriel whispered, his hand gently lifting my chin so our gazes locked completely.
“Vincent thinks he’s attending his coronation.”
“In reality, he’s walking onto his own scaffold.”
“It’s suicide if anything goes wrong,” I said, my voice steady despite the intense electricity passing between us.
“Nothing will go wrong as long as you are by my side, Elena,” Gabriel murmured, his thumb resting gently against the side of my neck where my pulse beat rhythmically.
“You pulled me back from the grave.”
“Now help me bury the man who tried to put me there.”
I looked at the blueprints on the table, then looked at the cold, beautiful monster standing before me.
Sixteen hours ago, I was just a tired private nurse looking for triple pay and a quiet shift.
Now, I was about to walk into the viper’s nest of the American mafia to bring down a dynasty.
“Get me a clean set of surgical scrubs and Don Camillo’s medical badge,” I said, stepping back from his touch with a resolute nod.
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“If we’re going to crash a mob coronation, let’s make sure we do it with style.”
Gabriel’s dark laugh echoed through the concrete bunker, rich, confident, and deadly.
