Chapter 5 - THE COMMISSION'S TRAPBy 5:00 AM, the Walsh estate looked like a war zone disguised as a country club. Black Escalades lined the circular driveway, their headlights cutting through the dense morning fog. Inside the grand parlor, six men sat in heavy leather armchairs around the stone fireplace.
They were the heads of the Chicago Commission—the elders who controlled every dock, union, casino, and shipping lane from Lake Michigan to the Indiana border.
At the head of the long oak table sat Don Salvatore Moretti, an eighty-year-old patriarch with silver hair, sharp vulture-like eyes, and a diamond ring the size of a robin’s egg on his crooked finger.
Behind Moretti stood Nicholas Vance, wearing his immaculate charcoal suit, a smug, untouchable smile playing on his lips.
The heavy double doors of the parlor swung open with a loud bang.
Declan Walsh walked in.
He didn't wear a coat. His white dress shirt was soaked with rain at the cuffs, his tie was gone, and his holster was strapped openly over his chest. Behind him walked Sophia, carrying the manila folder against her chest like a shield, wearing a fresh gray maid’s uniform she had grabbed from the estate’s laundry rooms.
Moretti didn't stand. He took a slow puff of his Cuban cigar, exhaling a thick cloud of gray smoke toward the high ceiling.
"Declan," Moretti rasped, his voice like dry leaves scraping across pavement. "You’re late. And you brought the help to a Commission meeting. Decorum has certainly slipped in the Gold Coast."
"Save the lecture, Salvatore," Declan said, stepping up to the edge of the table. He didn't sit down. He rested his massive, scarred hands on the polished wood, leaning forward. "You called an emergency session. Tell me why before I lose my patience."
Vance stepped out from behind Moretti’s chair, smoothing his lapels with exaggerated politeness.
"I called it, Declan," Vance said smoothly, his voice carrying clearly across the silent room. "As your consigliere, it is my duty to report when the head of the family is compromised. For the past eight months, your operations have suffered leaks. Shipments intercepted. Accounts drained. And why?" Vance pointed a manicured finger directly at Sophia. "Because our glorious leader has been spending his nights playing nursemaid to a twenty-four-year-old scrubwoman."
Murmurs rippled around the table. The other bosses exchanged dark, calculating glances.
"She’s a spy," Vance continued, raising his voice for dramatic effect. "Planted by rival factions to dig into our ledgers. And instead of eliminating her, Declan brought her into his bed. He’s unfit. He’s distracted. The Commission invokes Article 9 of the Charter: temporary suspension of authority pending an internal review."
Silence descended upon the room. A heavy, suffocating silence where empires rose and fell in a single breath.
Every eye turned to Declan.
If he drew his gun, he would kill Vance right here, but the Commission would declare him a rogue element, turning every family in Chicago against him. If he surrendered his weapon, he would be stripped of his title, locked away in a safehouse, and executed within forty-eight hours.
Declan didn't move a muscle. His pale blue eyes remained locked on Vance, cold and unreadable.
"Article 9," Declan repeated softly. "Requires a unanimous vote of the Commission, seconded by the consigliere." He looked around the table at the aging patriarchs. "And who authorized the financial transfers to the New York Outfit over the last six months, Nicholas?"
Vance scoffed, though a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. "That’s a deflection! Look at the audit logs! Declan hasn't checked a balance sheet in half a year!"
"No," Declan said, his voice cutting like glass. "I haven't. But my sister’s replacement did."
Declan stepped aside, gesturing to Sophia.
Sophia walked forward, her knees trembling slightly, but her spine straight as steel. She didn't look at Moretti. She looked directly at the center of the table and slammed the manila folder down onto the polished oak wood.
"These aren't spy notes," Sophia said, her voice ringing clear and steady through the massive room. "These are bank routing numbers, shell corporation certificates, and wire transfer receipts signed by Nicholas Vance using Declan’s forged digital signature."
Vance lunged forward, his face draining of all color. "She’s lying! It’s fabricated trash!"
"Open page four," Sophia challenged, flipping the folder open. "The transfer to the offshore account in the Cayman Islands on March 14th. The IP address matches the router in Vance’s private study on the third floor of this very house."
Moretti reached out with his crooked, ring-adorned fingers, pulled the folder toward him, and adjusted his glasses. He scanned the pages, his ancient, vulture-like eyes darting back and forth across the numbers.
The room was so quiet you could hear the distant rumble of thunder outside the stained-glass windows.
May you like
Moretti slowly closed the folder. He looked up at Vance. Then he looked at Declan.
"Nicholas," Moretti said softly, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Is this true?"
