Chapter 6 - The Council of Three Great LakesA collective, shuddering gasp ripped through the thirty syndicate commanders seated along the table.
Men who controlled the steel mills of Gary, the grain elevators of Milwaukee, and the rail yards of Chicago sat with their hands flat on the white linen, sensing the sudden, lethal drop in atmospheric pressure.
Arthur Montgomery slowly set his glass down. It rattled violently against the porcelain rim.
“Julian, you are letting childhood trauma cloud your reason,” Arthur said, trying to force his voice into its polished, aristocratic cadence. “An ancient work order from a commercial subsidiary proves nothing! A scullery worker stole an antique out of an estate trunk eighteen years ago—that does not warrant bringing childhood ghosts to an alliance table!”
Julian didn't raise his voice.
He tapped the desk. Dante stepped forward, flipping the work order over to reveal the uncashed fifteen-million-dollar promissory note, laying it flat before Don Carmine Falcone—the oldest and most revered capo in the Midwest.
Falcone adjusted his wire-rimmed reading glasses, his liver-spotted hands scanning the ink.
His weathered face turned to carved stone.
“Arthur,” Falcone rasped, his voice cutting through the hall like a rusted saw. “Is this your personal signature?”
Arthur swallowed hard, cold sweat breaking across his forehead under the chandelier heat.
“Carmine, that was an internal corporate settlement from twenty years ago! It had nothing to do with Francesca Vance!”
“It had everything to do with Francesca Vance,” Falcone said, looking up with ancient, cold disgust. “You blew up a mother and an eight-year-old child in open water. And your daughter tried to murder her on the floor of this very house three hours ago.”
Across the table, thirty syndicate commanders stood up in unison, their chairs scraping back, their hands diving beneath their bespoke jackets.
Arthur Montgomery backed against his chair, his patrician arrogance evaporating into raw, cornered panic.
“Falcone! Listen to me! The Montgomery family controls forty percent of the deep-water tugs on this lake! If you move against us, the federal authorities will have search warrants on every terminal in Illinois by dawn!”
Julian stepped forward, towering over the older man like an executioner on a scaffold.
“The federal authorities are already at your logistics headquarters on Wacker Drive, Arthur,” Julian said, each word falling like an iron anvil. “Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance—a man whose integrity your money could never touch—has been reviewing your 1996 dry dock vouchers since midnight.”
Arthur’s eyes dilated in pure horror.
“Marcus Vance...?”
“He doesn't like shipping magnates who murder women and children to steal deep-water berths,” Julian whispered.
He looked at Dante.
“Bring in Victoria.”
The side doors opened. Two guards dragged Victoria Montgomery into the room.
Her designer gown was stained with cellar mud, her emerald necklace stripped away, her makeup smeared across her pale face.
When she saw her father surrounded by thirty armed mobsters, a shrill, hysterical shriek tore from her throat.
“Daddy! They know! They found the medallion! They know about the fuel sleeves!”
Arthur Montgomery collapsed into his chair, his hands covering his face, weeping in broken, hopeless agony.
Julian looked down at the ruined dynasty with absolute, unyielding coldness.
“The Montgomery alliance is terminated,” Julian declared, his baritone booming through the vaulted hall. “Every warehouse, every transport permit, and every vessel operating under your name in this territory is seized under the authority of the Vance Outfit.”
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He looked at Dante.
“Take them to the federal marshals waiting at the gate. Their trials begin on Monday.”
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