Chapter 6 - The Shadows of ChicagoThree weeks later, the snow was falling heavily over the industrial rail yards of Chicago. The bitter Midwestern wind whipped through rusted shipping containers and abandoned warehouses—territory controlled by the Chicago Outfit, one of Mercer’s oldest and most volatile criminal allies.
Or rather, former allies.
Inside a dimly lit VIP lounge of a private social club downtown, Grant Mercer sat across from Salvatore "Sal" Moretti, a silver-haired mafia boss who had known Grant’s father.
Sal swirled a glass of expensive bourbon, eyeing Grant with thinly veiled contempt.
"Word on the street is you’re broke, kid," Sal said, leaning back in his velvet armchair. "Word is Mercer Holdings is facing bankruptcy filings, and your personal accounts were wiped out by some phantom accountant. You aren't the king of New York anymore, Grant. You're a liability."
Grant didn't touch his drink. He sat motionless, wearing a simple black wool coat, his posture straight and unyielding.
"My corporate structure is reorganizing," Grant replied smoothly. "And my personal liquidity is being recovered."
"Recovered by who? A ghost?" Sal laughed harshly, signaling two armed guards standing near the door to step closer. "Look, Grant, we had a good run. But my capos in Chicago aren't going to back a ghost. The shipping routes through the Great Lakes are mine now. Consider your partnership with the Outfit terminated."
The two guards moved in, reaching for their sidearms to escort Grant out in humiliation.
In a fraction of a second, before Marcus—waiting quietly in the corner—could draw his weapon, Grant moved with blinding, explosive violence.
He didn't hesitate. He grabbed the heavy crystal bourbon bottle from the table and smashed it across the nearest guard's face, spinning him around and using his body as a human shield against the second guard's gunfire.
Bang! Bang!
Bullets shattered the glassware behind them. Marcus drew his pistol and dropped the second guard with two precise shots to the chest.
Sal Moretti froze, his glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor as Grant’s cold, steel-blue eyes locked onto his throat.
Grant walked around the table, grabbed Sal by the lapels of his designer suit, and hauled him up until his toes barely touched the floor.
"You think I lost my empire because I lost money?" Grant whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying, suppressed fury. "Money was just paper I used to keep the world away. But you... you think you can take my routes while I'm cleaning house?"
"G-Grant... please..." Sal choked out, his face turning purple.
"Tell your capos in Chicago that if a single container goes missing, I will personally burn this entire city to the ground," Grant hissed, shoving Sal back into his chair so hard the furniture splintered.
As Grant walked out of the club into the freezing Chicago snow, wiping a speck of blood from his cuff, Marcus looked at him with renewed awe and dread.
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"Where to next, Boss?"
"Boston," Grant said, his eyes narrowing against the wind. "She left a digital breadcrumb in an old offshore server registered under her mother’s maiden name. She wants me to chase her."
