Chapter 6 - Retribution in Blood
The Grand Continental’s private dining room was paneled in polished mahogany, lit by antique crystal chandeliers, and guarded by forty armed bodyguards waiting outside the double oak doors.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with cigar smoke and distrust. Around the long banquet table sat the leaders of Chicago’s underworld—men who controlled everything from the docks to the judiciary. At the far end sat Viktor Ivanov, a burly, silver-haired man in a three-piece charcoal suit, wearing gold rings on every finger.
He was laughing heartily with Don Carlotti when the heavy oak doors swung open without a knock.
The room fell instantly silent.
Dante strode in first, imposing, ruthless, radiating pure dominance. Behind him walked Luca and four enforcers with automatic weapons visible beneath their tailored jackets. And on Dante’s arm, clad in an emerald green silk dress that deliberately left my bruised neck and bandaged collarbone visible to the entire room, was me.
Every eye at the table snapped to us.
Viktor Ivanov’s laugh died mid-throat. His glass of vintage scotch froze an inch above the polished wood. His face went through an entire spectrum of shock, confusion, and finally, sheer, bone-chilling terror.
He recognized me.
Dante didn’t sit down. He walked directly to the head of the table, stopped behind the empty chair, and pulled it out for me. I sat, my head held high despite the pounding in my chest. Dante rested a large, heavy hand on my bare shoulder, his fingers cool and steady.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Dante’s voice cut through the stillness like a razor.
Don Carlotti cleared his throat. "Dante. We weren't expecting you to bring... company to the council."
"My wife is not company, Carlotti. She is the Donna of the Moretti family," Dante replied, his gaze locked directly onto Viktor Ivanov.
Viktor swallowed, trying to summon his usual bluster. "Dante, what is this theatrics? We have business to discuss. Port taxes, zoning allocations..."
"Let’s talk about allocations, Viktor," Dante interrupted smoothly. He reached into his pocket and placed the black flash drive on the center of the table. "This little piece of plastic contains every shell company, every corrupt judge, and every illegal arms shipment you’ve coordinated behind this council's back for the past eighteen months."
Murmurs broke out down the length of the table. Carlotti and the other dons looked between the drive and Viktor with growing hostility.
"That's a lie! Fabrications!" Viktor stammered, slamming his fist on the table. "Who gave you this trash?"
"She did," Dante pointed down at me. "The woman your men hung from meat hooks in an abandoned slaughterhouse yesterday morning."
The temperature in the room plummeted below zero.
Under the old rules of the Chicago syndicate, touching another boss’s wife was an automatic, unpardonable death sentence. No vote. No tribunal.
"Dante, wait—" Viktor scrambled backward in his chair, reaching toward his armpit.
He never cleared leather.
Dante didn’t draw a gun. He moved with unnatural, predatory speed. In a fraction of a second, he was across the table, grabbing Viktor by his silk tie and slamming his face downward into the heavy mahogany table.
The sound of shattering glass and cartilage echoed through the room. Viktor shrieked as Dante drove a steak knife clean through the Russian’s right palm, pinning his hand directly into the banquet table.
Nobody at the table moved. Nobody drew a weapon. To defend Viktor now was to welcome Dante’s fury upon their own families.
Dante leaned down until his lips brushed Viktor’s bloody ear. "You made her bleed, Viktor. You made her beg."
"Dante... please..." Viktor whimpered, blood pooling around his pinned fingers.
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"You have six hours to surrender all your holdings to the Moretti family," Dante whispered, loud enough for every boss in the room to hear. "After that, there will not be a single soul left with your last name anywhere on this continent. Take the knife out, Viktor. It’s your last warning."
***
