Chapter 8 - The Wraith's Return
The VIP banquet hall at the Astor Grand looked exactly as it had a week ago, except this time, the twenty-five chairs were occupied.
The capos, lieutenants, and money launderers of the Chicago underworld sat in suffocating silence. No one touched the expensive scotch in front of them. The tension was thick enough to choke on.
The heavy oak doors opened.
Declan wheeled Silas Thorne into the room. Silas wore a bespoke black suit, his posture immaculate, his gaze cutting through the room like a scythe. He parked at the head of the table.
"Gentlemen," Silas said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it echoed in the silence. "I apologize for missing the appetizers last week."
A few men nervously cleared their throats.
"We were misguided, Silas," one of the older capos pleaded, sweating profusely. "Leo told us you were stepping down. We thought it was a peaceful transition."
"Leo is an idiot," Silas said flatly. "And Marcus is a dead man."
As if on cue, the side doors opened. Two of Silas's newly reinstated enforcers dragged a beaten, bloody Marcus into the room and threw him onto the carpet.
Marcus looked up, spitting blood. "Go to hell, Silas. You're half a man."
"And you are entirely obsolete," Silas replied. He didn't even draw a weapon. He just looked at Declan and gave a barely perceptible nod.
Declan drew his sidearm and put a single bullet in Marcus’s head.
The sound was deafening. The capos around the table flinched, some crying out in shock.
May you like
Silas didn't blink. "Anyone else feel that I am unfit to lead?"
The room descended into a chorus of desperate, overlapping pledges of absolute loyalty. The Iron Wraith had returned, and his crown was forged in blood.
