Chapter 7 - The Underworld Summit
The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was a masterpiece of gilded columns, crystal chandeliers, and lavish floral arrangements. Over three hundred guests—dressed in floor-length gowns and tailored tuxedos—mingled over flutes of vintage champagne.
At the center of the room stood Dante Rossi.
Dante was thirty-five, sharp-featured, with thin lips and arrogant, dark eyes. He wore an immaculate white tuxedo, raising his glass to the leaders of the rival crime syndicates who had gathered to celebrate his takeover.
"To the future of the Rossi empire!" Dante announced loudly into a microphone, his voice echoing over the applause of the crowd. "With my cousin Matteo tragically lost to us, I promise a new era of prosperity, peace, and—"
The heavy mahogany double doors at the back of the ballroom shattered inward with a deafening blast.
BOOM!
Plaster and splintered wood rained down upon the crowd. Panic erupted instantly as women screamed and men reached for concealed weapons.
Through the cloud of white dust stepped Matteo Rossi.
He was a vision of terrifying majesty. He wore a custom, midnight-black tuxedo, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his gray eyes sweeping the room like a god of judgment. Flanking him were fifty armed loyalists in dark suits, their weapons raised with military precision.
The ballroom went deathly silent. Glasses dropped to the floor, shattering against the marble.
Dante’s face went entirely white, his champagne glass slipping from his paralyzed fingers. "M-Matteo...?" he gasped, taking a stumbling step backward. "You're... you're dead! Vance said—"
"Vance failed, cousin," Matteo’s voice boomed through the ballroom, cold, deep, and lethal.
Matteo walked slowly down the central aisle, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea. Every capo, every mob boss from New York to Detroit stood motionless, staring in awe at the resurrected Don.
"You poisoned my drink," Matteo said, stopping ten feet from the stage. "You kept me trapped in a coma for six months, waiting to steal what I built with my blood. You thought I was weak. You thought I was gone."
Dante frantically grabbed a handgun from his bodyguard's holster, leveling it at Matteo's chest with shaking hands. "Stay back! Stay back or I'll shoot you myself!"
Matteo didn't even flinch. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply took another step forward, staring down the barrel of the gun with icy contempt.
"You don't have the guts, Dante," Matteo said quietly. "You never did."
Before Dante could pull the trigger, Nico stepped out from the shadows near the stage, firing a single, precise shot from a suppressed pistol.
The bullet struck Dante’s hand, shattering his wrist. Dante screamed in agony, dropping the weapon and collapsing to his knees, clutching his bleeding hand.
Matteo walked up the steps of the stage, grabbing Dante by his hair, pulling his face up so their eyes met.
"The Rossi family does not tolerate traitors," Matteo growled softly.
He threw Dante off the stage, where Nico and two enforcers immediately hauled him away into the night to face the underworld's final judgment.
Matteo turned to face the room of underworld leaders. He adjusted his cuffs, his posture towering and supreme.
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"My name is Matteo Rossi," he declared, his voice carrying absolute authority. "And Chicago is still mine."
The entire room erupted into thunderous, awe-struck applause, as every boss bowed their head to the undisputed King.
