Chapter 4 - THE WEST SIDE SUMMONSThe message went out at noon through encrypted channels that couldn't be traced by federal agents or rival syndicates. By two in the afternoon, the landscape of Chicago’s underworld had shifted on its axis.
I sat at the head of a long, dark oak table in the basement of an abandoned slaughterhouse off Roosevelt Road—a neutral zone where families met when blood was about to be spilled. Across from me sat Marcus Vance (no relation, thankfully, but a heavy hitter who controlled the West Side freight lines) and Vincent Vandermark, Celeste’s uncle and the actual muscle behind her family’s financial empire.
Vincent looked uneasy. He had arrived with three armed guards, but my men—led by my driver, who doubled as an enforcer with a military background—had relieved them of their hardware at the door.
"This is an outrage, Vance," Vincent barked, slamming his palm onto the table. "Abducting my niece's fiancé with veiled threats? Dragging us to a rat hole? We have a wedding in three weeks. The elite of this city are flying in! You’re committing economic suicide."
I didn't blink. I slid Ewan’s black flash drive across the polished oak table. It stopped right in front of Vincent’s coffee cup.
"What is this?" Vincent sneered, glancing down at it.
"Play it on that laptop," I nodded toward the tech technician standing in the corner.
Within seconds, the projector mounted on the brick wall flickered to life. Audio files, bank statements, and scanned contracts filled the screen. Voices echoed through the damp room—Arthur Vandermark’s voice, plotting with a corrupt fire marshal six years ago to rig the gas lines at Pier 44. Voices detailing how Ewan Vance was cornered, silenced, and burned to cover up a fifty-million-dollar embezzlement scheme siphon-grafted from my own shipping accounts.
And alongside it, bank routing numbers showing regular, monthly transfers from the Vandermark family account straight to Ray Calder—the very man I had spared in the warehouse just yesterday. The circle was complete. Ray hadn't just been selling schedules to the West Side; he was laundering the Vandermarks' extortion money.
Vincent’s face went the color of curdled milk. The bluster vanished, replaced by the cold, sweating panic of a man who realized he had miscalculated his opponent's reach.
"This... this is forged," Vincent stammered, his hands trembling as he reached for his water glass. "Generated by AI. Fabricated by a disgruntled employee—"
"Ray Calder confessed an hour ago," I interrupted, my voice flat and absolute. "He’s currently on a private jet bound for South America with a new name and a clean passport. But before he left, he signed a full affidavit detailing every dollar your brother Arthur funneled through his hands. And he signed another one stating that Arthur murdered my brother."
Marcus Vance, sitting at the side of the table, slowly leaned back in his chair. He looked at Vincent, then at me, and gave a slow, respectful nod. The West Side had no loyalty to losers. The Vandermarks were officially dead weight.
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"What do you want, Nicholas?" Marcus asked quietly.
"I want the Vandermark shipping shares transferred to my estate before sunset," I said, standing up from the table. "I want Arthur Vandermark delivered to my front gates by midnight, tied up and stripped of his guards. And as for Celeste..." I paused, buttoning my coat. "Let her keep her wedding dress. She’s going to need something white to wear to a funeral."
