Chapter 7 - The True Boss of Chicago
Callahan’s knees buckled, hitting the hardwood floor beside the puddle of spilled whiskey with a dull crack. He began to weep, holding his hands up to shield his face, looking like a pathetic, deflated shadow of the powerful union boss who had strutted through the city for a decade.
"Please, Desmond," Callahan sobbed into his expensive silk tie. "Ten years. I gave you ten years of loyalty. Don't do this."
Desmond didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't raise his voice. He simply leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on his armrests, looking down at the man who had broken his body with an expression of pure, unadulterated contempt.
"Ten years," Desmond said calmly. "And you traded it for thirty pieces of silver and an offshore ledger. Frankie."
"Boss?"
"Call the United States Attorney’s Office," Desmond instructed, never taking his eyes off Callahan. "Tell them Special Agent Miller can find the entire paper trail of the East Coast port smuggling operation, including twenty years of Callahan’s tax fraud, in the encrypted server beneath his desk. Deliver Marcus to the federal courthouse steps at dawn, tied to a handcart with his passport taped to his forehead."
Callahan blinked in utter disbelief, his face contorted in confusion. "The... the feds? You're giving me to the government? You aren't going to kill me?"
"Death is too quick for a traitor, Marcus," Desmond said, his voice cold enough to freeze water. "I want you to spend the next thirty years in a federal penitentiary in Colorado, eating through a plastic tray, knowing every single day that the man in the wheelchair took away everything you stole."
Frankie grinned, grabbing Callahan by the scruff of his expensive collar and hauling him roughly to his feet. "Up you go, big boy. You've got an appointment with the Department of Justice."
As Callahan was dragged out of the office, his pathetic cries fading down the hallway, Desmond turned his chair around to face Tyler and me.
Tyler was trembling so violently that he could barely keep his balance. Desmond reached out, his large hand gripping Tyler’s uninjured shoulder with steady, surprisingly gentle reassurance.
"You're safe, kid," Desmond said softly. "The wire transfers have been scrubbed by my cyber team. By morning, your name will be completely cleared from the federal customs database. You don't owe a dime, and nobody is ever coming after you again."
May you like
Tyler’s knees gave out, and he sank onto a nearby leather chair, burying his face in his hands and weeping tears of pure, overwhelming relief. "Thank you... Mr. Gallagher, thank you so much."
"Don't thank me, Tyler," Desmond said, his eyes shifting upward until they met mine in the dim morning light. "Thank your sister. She’s the only person in this city who was crazy enough to yell at me when everyone else was busy preparing my funeral."
