Chapter 7 - The Night of Long Knives
The Calumet River docks were a desolate expanse of rusting cranes, derelict warehouses, and oily water. It was 10:00 PM, and a thick fog had rolled in, obscuring the skyline and muffling the sound of the city.
At the end of Pier 4, a lone limousine was parked. Inside sat Frank Gallo, sipping scotch. He checked his watch. 10:15 PM. Nico was late.
Frank smiled. He had waited seven years for this moment. Seven years of playing the loyal consigliere while Nico played king. Nico, with his fancy penthouse, his obsession with legitimacy, his soft heart. Nico didn't have the stomach for the real game. The game was about power. The game was about survival.
And Frank had won. He had manipulated Lorenzo Vitale, he had bought off Nico’s lieutenants, and he had systematically looted the Valente accounts. Tomorrow, the Valente name would be a footnote in Chicago history.
A convoy of black SUVs pulled onto the pier. Frank smiled, stubbing out his cigarette. Nico was here.
The SUVs stopped, and the doors opened. But it wasn't Nico’s personal guard that stepped out. It was the North Side crew—Lorenzo Vitale’s men, heavily armed.
Lorenzo himself stepped out, a sneer on his face. He walked over to Frank’s limousine and opened the door.
"Your Milwaukee boy is late, Frank," Lorenzo said, his voice gravelly.
"He'll be here," Frank said, his voice calm. "He's always punctual."
"I'm getting nervous," Lorenzo said. "You promised me his head tonight. You promised me the keys to the city."
"Patience, Lorenzo," Frank said. "All good things..."
Suddenly, the air was filled with the sound of rotors. A helicopter, lights blazing, hovered above the pier.
"What is this?" Lorenzo shouted, shielding his eyes.
At the same time, the doors of the warehouses burst open, and dozens of Nico’s elite enforcers poured out, weapons raised. But these weren't the men Frank had paid off. These were Nico’s loyalists—men brought in from out of state, men who knew only one boss.
Nico Valente stepped out of the shadows of the warehouse. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying an assault rifle. Beside him was Pierce, also armed to the teeth.
"Frank," Nico’s voice boomed, amplified by a megaphone. "The meeting is adjourned."
Frank’s face drained of color. He looked at Lorenzo. "It's a trap," Frank hissed. "He... he knows."
"You betrayed me, Frank," Nico said, walking slowly toward the limousine. "My father’s friend. My brother."
"You were weak, Nico!" Frank cried, stepping out of the limo, raising his hands in surrender. "You were going to ruin everything! I did this for the family! I did this for the legacy!"
"The legacy is Valente," Nico said, raising his rifle. "And it ends with you."
Before Frank could speak, a shot rang out. Not from Nico. From Lorenzo Vitale.
Lorenzo raised his pistol and shot Frank Gallo in the chest.
"I'm tired of your speeches, Frank," Lorenzo sneered. "And I'm tired of you."
As Frank fell, the pier erupted into gunfire. It was a massacre. Nico’s men, disciplined and motivated, quickly overwhelmed the North Side crew. Lorenzo Vitale tried to run, but he was cut down by Pierce.
Nico stood over the dying Frank Gallo. The consigliere was gasping for air, blood pooling on the wet concrete.
"You... you could have been a king, Nico," Frank whispered. "Instead... you're... you're just... you're just a dog."
"A dog knows who's good," Nico said, his voice cold. "And Gallo... you were never good."
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Nico turned away as Frank Gallo took his final breath.
The Valente empire was saved. But the cost was Nico’s soul.
