Chapter 1 - The First Fracture
Caleb Voss hesitated, his thumb hovering nervously over the glass surface of the tablet. The private elevator hummed as it sliced upward through the fifty stories of Cross Harbor Logistics, the morning sun casting sharp, angular shadows across the polished steel interior.
“What is it, Caleb?” Dominic demanded, his voice dropping an octave. He reached up, loosening his silk tie with a sharp jerk. His skin still felt faintly warm from the night before, haunted by the residual musk of a woman whose name he barely remembered—a high-end hostess he had met at a private poker game in River North.
A momentary lapse. A distraction. Nothing more. Dominic had convinced himself that men at the top were entitled to shadows, as long as the light remained entirely theirs.
“It’s not just the Joliet trucks, boss,” Caleb finally admitted, lowering the tablet. “The municipal contract for the South Side transit expansion... it just got pulled. The city council voted unanimously at 7:00 AM to award it to Vance Infrastructure.”
Dominic stopped breathing for a fraction of a second.
Vance Infrastructure.
The name tasted like iron in his mouth. Ethan Vance. A quiet, terrifyingly efficient family out of Boston and Chicago’s old-money elite, a house that rarely bid on public contracts unless they wanted to send a message.
“Vance doesn't have the heavy machinery ready for a municipal rail expansion,” Dominic said, his pale green eyes narrowing into cold slits. “They don't have the zoning permits. It would take six months just to clear the environmental reviews.”
“They cleared them yesterday afternoon,” Caleb replied, his voice tense. “Special expedited review. Signed off by the Mayor’s office. The paperwork bypassed the usual committee entirely.”
Dominic’s fist clenched inside his leather glove. The knuckles—tattooed with the word LOYALTY—pulsed with sudden heat. Nobody bypassed his committees. The mayor of Chicago owed his seat, his campaign funds, and his wife’s foundation to Dominic Cross.
“Get the mayor on the phone,” Dominic ordered, stepping out of the elevator as the doors hissed open onto his private penthouse-level office. “Tell him I want brunch at Gibsons in twenty minutes. We’re going to discuss municipal loyalty.”
“I already tried calling him, boss,” Caleb said, trailing behind him across the thick Persian rug. “His chief of staff said he’s unavailable. In fact... the mayor’s office issued a press release ten minutes ago announcing a city-wide audit of all Cross Harbor shipping permits.”
Dominic stopped dead in his tracks.
May you like
An audit? Cross Harbor had never been audited in eight years. The books were clean, the politicians were bought, and the judges were managed.
A cold spike of unease—foreign and sharp—pricked at the base of his skull. For the first time in a decade, Dominic Cross felt the floor beneath his custom Italian shoes shift.
