Chapter 5 - The Senator's Gambit
Down in the city, far away from the insulated cliffs of Lake Michigan, Senator Arthur Thorne sat in his mahogany-paneled study, staring at a stack of federal subpoena documents with a face the color of spoiled milk.
The phone on his desk rang. It was a private line—the one that only rang when something catastrophic had happened.
Arthur snatched up the receiver. "Talk to me."
"It's over, Senator," a tense voice whispered from the other end. "Moretti’s people moved on our municipal shipping accounts three hours ago. All federal assets are frozen. If we go to trial, we're looking at twenty years minimum."
Arthur’s hand shook so violently he nearly dropped the phone. "Moretti? Why would Moretti target us out of nowhere? We had an understanding!"
"It wasn't out of nowhere," the voice spat back. "Your daughter decided to pick a public fight with a maid in a cemetery this morning. A maid that Moretti apparently considers... personal property."
The blood drained entirely from Arthur Thorne's face. A maid? Bianca had ruined a multi-million-dollar political dynasty and an entire criminal enterprise over a servant girl?
"Where is Bianca?" Arthur demanded, his voice cracking with panic.
"She's at home, sir. Crying in her room. But... that's not the worst of it."
"What could possibly be worse than this?!"
"Moretti's legal team just filed an emergency injunction. They aren't just destroying your campaign, Senator. They're coming after the family estate. Every asset, every property, every cent. Moretti is wiping the Thornes off the map by sunrise."
Arthur slammed the phone down onto its cradle, his chest heaving. The room seemed to spin around him. For thirty years, he had believed he was untouchable—that money and political influence could shield him from the underworld. He had forgotten the golden rule of Chicago: you can buy a politician, you can bribe a judge, but you never, ever cross a Moretti.
And then, the heavy oak doors of his study swung open.
Arthur jumped, spinning around in his chair.
Standing in the doorway wasn't a federal marshal. It was Miller, Dante Moretti's chief enforcer, flanked by two men in dark suits who moved with the silent, terrifying grace of executioners.
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Miller didn't smile. He didn't need to. He walked slowly toward the desk, pulling a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from his belt and laying them flat on the mahogany wood.
"Senator Thorne," Miller said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Mr. Moretti sends his regards. And he asked me to escort you downtown."
