Chapter 5 - THE INVITATION
By evening, the social elite of Chicago began receiving mysterious, high-priority notifications regarding the Romano-Vandermark wedding.
It wasn't a cancellation notice. It was an invitation.
I had ordered my staff to dispatch digital and physical summons to every major syndicate boss, city councilman, and allied family head across the South and West sides. The venue remained the estate’s grand ballroom. The date remained three weeks away. But the purpose of the gathering had fundamentally changed.
Celeste locked herself in her suite on the third floor, refusing dinner, refusing to speak to anyone except her father, who had spent the afternoon frantically calling every judge and commissioner on his payroll—only to find their phones mysteriously disconnected or conveniently unanswered.
I sat in my study, the metal lockbox open on my desk, reviewing the financial ledgers page by page.
The door opened without a knock. Marco Bellini—my loyal right hand, unaware of the storm brewing upstairs—stepped into the room, holding a thick envelope.
"Julian," Marco said, his face tight with controlled urgency. "Vandermark’s senior legal counsel just tried to serve us an injunction to block the asset audit. They're claiming we're violating pre-nuptial privacy clauses."
"Let them try," I said coldly, not looking up from the ledger. "File a countersuit for corporate espionage, obstruction of justice, and accessory to second-degree murder."
Marco paused, blinking in genuine shock. "Murder? Julian, whose murder?"
I slid Ewan’s microcassette recorder across the polished mahogany desk toward him. "My brother's. Play it, Marco."
Marco picked up the small device with trembling fingers, pressing play. Ewan’s voice filled the room once more, detailing the weapons smuggling, the financial embezzlement, and the betrayal orchestrated by the Vandermark family right under our noses.
When the tape clicked off, Marco looked up at me, his face pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of grief and absolute, cold rage. "Ewan... he knew all along. And Celeste..."
"Celeste helped her father pull the trigger," I finished for him, standing up from my chair and buttoning my suit jacket. "She thought she had buried the secret six years ago in the ashes of Pier 44. She thought she could marry into our family, take control of the logistics network, and erase the last obstacle standing in their way."
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"What do you want me to do?" Marco asked, his voice dropping into the lethal, disciplined register of a man ready for war.
"Gather our loyal men," I instructed, walking toward the window to look out over the snowy estate grounds. "Lock down the perimeter. Nobody enters, and nobody leaves—especially not Celeste or her father. We are going to throw the wedding of the century. And when the guests arrive, we are going to show Chicago exactly what happens when you burn a Romano."
