Chapter 9
Arthur thrashed on the ruined banquet table, his face turning a deep, mottled purple as Bennett’s grip tightened incrementally. The older man’s polished shoes kicked uselessly against the tablecloth.
"I can't tell you!" Arthur wheezed, his eyes bulging. "If I tell you his name, he will slaughter my entire family! He will burn my grandchildren alive!"
"If you do not tell me," Bennett said, his voice dropping into a chilling, freezing whisper. "I will not wait for him to do it. I will do it myself. Tonight."
Arthur stared up into Bennett’s cold, sharp eyes. He saw no mercy, no hesitation, and no bluff. He saw a father who had just watched his children strapped to luggage like cargo. He saw the devil.
"It was the Chicago Syndicate!" Arthur sobbed, the confession tearing from his throat in a rush of terrified breath. "It was Don Maroni! He wants your territory, Bennett! He knew you wouldn't surrender the eastern ports unless he held your heirs hostage!"
Bennett released his grip, letting Arthur collapse onto the shattered plates. Arthur gasped hungrily for air, coughing violently as he rubbed his bruised throat.
The revelation sent a shockwave of whispers rippling through the bright, cinematic ballroom. The Chicago Syndicate was the largest and most ruthless criminal organization in the Midwest. Don Maroni was a ghost, a mythic figure who rarely operated outside his own borders. For him to reach directly into Bennett’s home meant a massive, unprecedented war had just begun.
"Maroni," Bennett repeated slowly, the name tasting like ash.
He stood up, adjusting his tailored suit jacket to cover his wine-stained shirt. He looked around the room, his eyes scanning the faces of his capos and lieutenants. They were all staring at him, waiting for his command.
"Marcus," Bennett called out.
The head of security stepped through the crowd, his face grim. "Yes, Boss."
"Take Arthur to the basement holding cells," Bennett ordered, his volume remaining low and controlled. "Extract every detail of the transport route. Then, dispose of him."
"No! Bennett, please! I gave you his name!" Arthur shrieked as two massive guards hauled him off the table, dragging him toward the service doors.
Bennett ignored the screaming man. He turned his attention back to the briefcase full of bearer bonds. He picked up one of the crisp, expensive documents, examining the bright, intricate printing under the chandelier light.
"Fifty million dollars," Bennett mused softly.
He looked at Marcus, a dark, terrifyingly calm expression settling over his movie-star handsome face. The loose strands of wavy hair falling over his forehead gave him the look of a chaotic, brilliant tactician preparing for a slaughter.
"Gather the strike teams," Bennett commanded. "We are not waiting for Maroni to make another move."
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"We're hitting Chicago, Boss?" Marcus asked, his American accent thick with disbelief. "That’s a suicide mission. They have a thousand soldiers in that city."
"We are not attacking his soldiers," Bennett said, dropping the bearer bond back into the briefcase. "We are going to buy his lieutenants. We are going to use his own fifty million dollars to fund a coup from inside his own house."
