Chapter 3 - The Syndicate Awakens
By 4:00 a.m., the underworld of Chicago was burning.
Word spread through the criminal underbelly like wildfire through dry timber. The Cross Syndicate, usually a ghost organization that operated in the pristine shadows of legitimate corporate finance, had suddenly erupted with terrifying, violent energy. Enforcers kicked in doors across the South Side, shaking down low-level pushers, corrupt cops, and rival lieutenants. The fragile, uneasy peace Adrian Cross had maintained for a decade was shattered in a single hour.
Inside the subterranean war room beneath Adrian’s penthouse, massive digital monitors cast an eerie blue glow over maps of the city, shipping routes, and intercepted cell tower data.
Audrey sat on a leather sofa in the corner, wrapped in a warm wool blanket, a cup of black coffee cooling untouched in her hands. A private trauma surgeon Adrian had summoned at 3:00 a.m. had thoroughly cleaned her wounds, re-stitched her temple properly, and prescribed heavy painkillers. She watched through heavy, exhausted eyelids as Adrian paced the length of the war room.
He had discarded his overcoat, rolling his sleeves up even higher. The faded ink on his forearms—symbols of kills and territories from his bloody youth—seemed to pulse under the harsh overhead lights.
The heavy steel door swung open, and Marcus stepped inside, flanked by two heavily armed enforcers dragging a kicking, screaming man between them. The captive was Joey “The Rat” Gallo, a low-level enforcer belonging to the old Irish mob remnants operating out of Bridgeport.
Marcus shoved Gallo forward, sending him crashing hard onto the concrete floor at Adrian’s feet.
“Speak,” Adrian commanded, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it commanded the entire room to hold its breath.
Gallo spat a mouthful of blood onto the pristine floor, trembling violently as he looked up at Adrian. “I swear to God, Cross, I didn't know! If we knew she worked for you, we never would've touched her!”
Adrian slowly stopped pacing. He crouched down until he was eye-level with the terrified Irishman. The sheer, predatory stillness of the mafia boss made Gallo press his back flat against the concrete.
“You intercepted a silver sedan on the Dan Ryan Expressway at 1:30 a.m.,” Adrian said, his tone conversational, almost polite. “You smashed her window with a bat. You threw a Cornell graduate who manages my legitimate tax portfolios against the hood of a car. And you had the absolute audacity to leave a message for me.”
“It was a warning!” Gallo sobbed, tears mixing with blood on his face. “Vince Marino—the outfit out of New York—they're trying to muscle into the Chicago port operations! They paid us fifty grand to hit one of your high-level accountants to send a message that your books are vulnerable! We didn't know it was her—we thought she was just some corporate drone!”
Adrian tilted his head. “New York.”
“Yes! Vince Marino! He's running the play from a warehouse down at the meatpacking district! He has the briefcase! He has the ledgers!”
Adrian stood up slowly. He did not look angry anymore. That was the most terrifying part. The volcanic rage had crystallized into something cold, pristine, and lethal.
He turned his head toward the corner of the room. “Audrey.”
Audrey flinched, blinking heavily against the painkillers. “Yes, Mr. Cross?”
“Did Marino’s men get the primary offshore routing codes off that encrypted drive?”
“No,” Audrey said, her voice steady despite her swollen face. “The drive uses biometric multi-factor encryption tied to my thumbprint and heartbeat. Without my physical body, the files automatically self-destruct after seventy-two hours of unauthorized access attempts.”
A thin, humorless smile touched the corners of Adrian’s mouth. He looked back down at Gallo, who was weeping openly on the floor.
“You destroyed her cell phone,” Adrian noted softly.
“Yeah! Yeah, we smashed it!” Gallo cried.
“Audrey liked that phone,” Adrian said. He signaled to one of his enforcers with a microscopic twitch of his index finger. “Marcus. Take Mr. Gallo down to the docks. Give him a cement overcoat and throw him in Lake Michigan. Make sure he sinks deep enough that the fish don't have to look at him.”
“No! No, please, Cross! You said you wanted information!” Gallo shrieked as the two enforcers hoisted him off the ground by his armpits, dragging him screaming toward the freight elevator.
The heavy steel doors slammed shut, cutting off the cries.
May you like
Adrian turned back to Audrey, walking over to the leather sofa. He knelt down beside her, his dark eyes softening just a fraction as he looked at the white bandages on her temple.
“Go to sleep, Audrey,” he instructed quietly. “When you wake up, New York will have a very different understanding of Chicago real estate.”
