Nico Greco proudly offered his aunt Bianca a gift-wrapped, handmade wooden airplane from his wheelchair

The boardroom on the top floor of the Greco tower offered a panoramic view of Chicago. Bright, clear sunlight flooded the room, reflecting off the polished glass and steel. Twenty of the most dangerous men in the city sat around the massive conference table, their expressions grim and expectant.

Vittorio stood at the head of the table. He wore a crisp white dress shirt, no jacket, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms and the artistic ink that marked his skin. He looked every inch a warlord preparing for battle.

"Bianca and Owen are gone," Vittorio announced. The blunt statement hung in the air. "They conspired with the Volkov syndicate to usurp my seat and bring narcotics into our ports. They paid the price for their treason."

A murmur rippled through the capos, a mix of shock and dark approval.

"The Volkovs think we are divided," Vittorio continued, his raspy voice commanding the room. "They think the death of my sister makes us weak. They are staging a massive shipment of weapons and heroin at the commercial docks tonight, expecting Owen’s men to wave them through."

Vittorio placed his hands flat on the table, leaning forward. His cold eyes swept over his captains.

"Tonight, we show them that the Greco family is not divided. We show them that my word is absolute. We do not arrest them. We do not negotiate. We wipe them out."

He began assigning targets. Teams were dispatched to cut communications, block the access roads, and secure the perimeter of the docks. Heavy weapons were authorized. This was not a warning strike; it was an eradication.

"What about their leader, Sergei?" one of the capos asked.

"Sergei Volkov is mine," Vittorio said softly, the danger in his voice palpable. "I want him taken alive and brought to the steel mill."

The meeting concluded with sharp, militaristic efficiency. The capos filed out, their faces set in hard, determined lines. Vittorio was left alone in the bright boardroom, looking out over the city he ruled.

He knew the risks. A full-scale war with the Russians would draw attention. But it was a necessary display of brutal dominance. He had to prove that the incident at the concert hall was not a sign of weakness, but the awakening of a sleeping dragon.

As the sun set, casting a beautiful, rosy hue over the skyline, Vittorio prepared for the night. He strapped a custom 1911 pistol to his shoulder holster, pulled on a dark leather jacket, and headed for the elevator.

The docks were bathed in the harsh, yellow glare of sodium lights when Vittorio’s convoy arrived. The air smelled of salt, diesel, and impending violence.

His men were already in position. The Russian shipment had arrived—three massive cargo containers sitting on the tarmac, surrounded by two dozen heavily armed Volkov soldiers.