Chapter 8 - The Drake Hotel Summit
Midnight at The Drake Hotel in Gold Coast was usually reserved for charity galas, high-society weddings, and political fundraisers.
Tonight, the grand Venetian Ballroom on the French floor was sealed off to the public. Private security guards in dark suits with earpieces stood at every marble archway. The grand crystal chandeliers cast a heavy, amber glow across a massive round mahogany table set in the center of the room.
Seated around the table were eighteen men and three women—the undisputed rulers of the Midwest underworld. Wealthy, ruthless, and armed, they represented billions of dollars in illegal enterprise stretching from the Great Lakes to the Mississippi River.
At the head of the table sat Arthur Vance—a sixty-year-old man with silver hair, a thick beard, and eyes like a gray reef shark. Beside him sat Victoria, looking immaculate in a black velvet gown.
At 11:58 PM, the double mahogany doors at the back of the ballroom swung open.
Julian Croft walked in.
He wore a bespoke black tuxedo, tailored to perfection, a black silk bowtie straight at his throat. He walked with the effortless, dangerous grace of a panther entering a ring of wolves.
Beside him walked Maya Torres.
The room went dead silent.
Every head turned. Every eye locked onto the young woman walking on Julian’s arm.
Maya did not look like a maid.
Julian had spent six hours that afternoon with his personal stylists in the penthouse. Maya wore a breathtaking, deep emerald-green silk floor-length gown that hugged her slender waist and flowed gracefully down to her silver heels. Her dark hair was styled in elegant, loose waves cascading over her shoulder. Around her neck sat a emerald-and-diamond collar necklace from Julian's private vault worth more than the entire street of Western Avenue.
Her face was calm. Her head was held high. Her green eyes met the cold, terrifying stares of twenty mafia bosses without flinching a single inch.
Beside her, Derek Vance walked three steps behind, carrying a sleek black leather briefcase.
Julian led Maya straight to the head of the table, stopping directly opposite Arthur Vance.
Arthur Vance leaned forward, resting his heavy, ring-covered hands on the polished wood. He looked at Maya, then looked at Julian, a cold, mocking smirk playing on his weathered lips.
"Julian," Arthur Vance boomed, his voice carrying through the quiet ballroom like heavy iron gates slamming shut. "You honor us with your presence. And you brought your... domestic help."
A low chorus of dark, gravelly chuckles rippled through the older men seated around the table. Marcus Kane—sitting three seats down with a heavy white bandage strapped across his broken nose—glared at Maya with pure, unadulterated hatred.
Julian didn't smile. He didn't sit down. He rested his gloved hand over Maya’s hand where it rested on his forearm, holding her close to his side.
"Let us skip the theater, Arthur," Julian said smoothly, his voice quiet, clear, and commanding the instant attention of every person in the room. "You called this summit because you believe I have made a mistake. You believe I have allowed personal feelings to compromise my judgment."
Arthur Vance stood up slowly, his broad frame towering over the table.
"You broke Marcus Kane's face, Julian," Arthur stated coldly. "You wiped out a legitimate ninety-thousand-dollar debt owed to an allied crew. You threatened the O'Malley distribution network over a girl who washes your floorboards. That is not business, Julian. That is weakness."
Arthur pointed a thick finger at Maya.
"She is a civilian," Arthur growled. "She has no bloodline. She has no money. She has no standing in this Commission. The O'Malleys demand ninety thousand dollars in cash tonight, or they demand the girl be turned over to clear the debt."
The room remained dead silent, waiting for Julian's response.
Julian looked around the table—at the twenty ruthless killers waiting to see if the king of Chicago had grown soft, waiting for a single sign of hesitation so they could tear his empire apart.
Julian slowly reached into his tuxedo jacket.
Three men at the table reached for their shoulder holsters—but Derek Vance instantly raised his arm, six armed Croft operatives stepping out from the curtained balconies above, red laser sights appearing simultaneously on the chests of every boss in the room!
The room gasped!
Julian didn't pull a gun. He pulled out a slender, red leather ring box.
He didn't look at Arthur Vance. He didn't look at the O'Malleys. He turned his body completely, looking down into Maya’s shining green eyes.
Julian opened the box.
Inside rested a flawless, five-carat black diamond ring set in platinum—the ancestral seal ring of the Croft family estate, worn only by the matriarch of his empire.
Maya’s breath hitched in her throat. Her hands trembled as she looked at the sparkling black stone, then up at Julian's dark, fiercely devoted eyes.
Julian took the ring from the box. He took Maya’s left hand in his, sliding the heavy platinum band smoothly onto her ring finger until it rested secure against her skin.
He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against her knuckles in front of every syndicate boss in the Midwest.
Then, Julian turned back to Arthur Vance, his eyes burning with an absolute, lethal majesty that sent a chill straight through the core of every man in the room.
"She is no longer my maid, Arthur," Julian announced, his voice echoing through the grand Venetian Ballroom like thunder rolling over Lake Michigan. "As of midnight tonight... she is Maya Torres Croft. My wife. My equal. And the future queen of the Croft Syndicate."
Julian stepped closer to the table, leaning his hands on the polished mahogany, glaring directly into the pale, terrified eyes of Marcus Kane and the O'Malley bosses.
"If anyone in this room—or anyone in this city—has a problem with her debt," Julian whispered, his tone so sharp it could cut steel, "you can collect it from my barrel."
Arthur Vance stared at the red laser sight glowing on his own chest, then looked at the black diamond shining on Maya’s finger, and finally at Julian Croft’s unflinching, terrifying face.
Slowly, Arthur Vance sat back down in his heavy chair. He raised his crystal glass of scotch into the air, his cold gray eyes acknowledging a master move in a dangerous game.
"To Mrs. Croft," Arthur Vance toasted quietly.
Around the table, nineteen mafia bosses slowly raised their glasses in silent, terrified submission.
May you like
Julian turned to Maya, offering his arm. Maya smiled—a radiant, breathtaking, beautiful smile—and wrapped her hand around his sleeve.
Together, the Mafia Boss Who Feared Nothing and the maid who had stopped running walked out of the ballroom, stepping out into the Chicago night to rule the city together.
