Chapter 9 - The Council of WolvesDownstairs in the subterranean billiards room, thick with the blue haze of Cuban cigars and the reek of old whiskey, the men who ran the South Side sat in leather armchairs that had cost more than Iris's entire life.
Victor Castellano did not sit.
He stood at the head of the mahogany table, leaning his weight onto his knuckles. The gold signet ring on his right index finger caught the amber lamplight. Across from him sat Marcus Vance, a man whose silver hair and tailored Brioni suits masked a ledger drenched in blood and human trafficking.
"The rumor is spreading through the docks, Victor," Vance said, swirling a glass of Macallan 25. "Forty-two men heard your promise at the gala. Half your empire. Every capo from Cicero to Gary is scouring the orphanages and speech clinics trying to buy a miracle worker. You've placed a crown on a boy who hasn't uttered a syllable since his mother hit the kitchen tile."
"Let them look," Victor's voice was a low, gravelly rasp that cut through the room like a switchblade. "None of them know what broke him. You think a speech therapist from the county hospital is going to fix a kid who watched his mother's heart stop while she was buttering his toast?"
"And the girl?" Another voice emerged from the shadows near the bar—Sal "The Hammer" Marcone, whose right hand was permanently deformed from a pneumatic press incident in the nineties. "The new maid. The one Croft hired from the agency. Word is she’s carrying debt from the Outfit’s loan shark division on 31st Street. Rocco’s boys squeezed her arm three days before she crossed your gates."
Victor’s head snapped toward Marcone. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
"Repeat that."
Marcone didn't flinch, though a bead of sweat tracked down his scarred temple. "Rocco’s crew. Forty-eight thousand. Her husband skipped town with a gambling tab. She’s working off interest on a waitress salary. She shouldn't even be in this zip code, Victor. Let alone five doors down from your son."
Victor didn't shout. He didn't slam his fist on the table. He simply straightened up, buttoned his black suit jacket, and reached into his inner pocket for his gold-plated lighter.
"Rocco thinks he can levy interest inside my perimeter?" Victor murmured, striking the flint. The flame hissed to life, illuminating the hard, ruthless planes of his face. "Tell Rocco his debt is paid in full. By morning, his collection agency will find their storefront on 31st Street converted into a parking lot. And Marcone?"
"Yeah?"
"If any of you ever check my domestic staff's background checks again without my permission, you won't need to worry about my son's inheritance. You'll be dividing up your own plots at Graceland."
Victor turned and walked out of the room, leaving the most dangerous men in Chicago staring into their glasses like frightened schoolboys. But as he climbed the grand marble staircase toward the east wing, a strange uneasiness gnawed at his gut.
He stopped outside Leo’s bedroom. The door was cracked open.
May you like
Inside, sitting cross-legged on the Persian rug with a threadbare blue elephant in her lap, was Iris Day. She wasn't cleaning. She wasn't dusting. She was quietly signing phrases with her hands—slow, rhythmic movements in American Sign Language—while Leo watched her from the mattress, his small fingers twitching in mimicry.
Victor froze in the shadows, his breath catching in his throat. For the first time in eight months, the tight knot in his chest loosened just a fraction. But alongside the relief came a terrifying realization: She knew who he was. And she wasn't running.
