Chapter 7 - The Reckoning with Dante Rossi
By midnight, the Cross estate was eerily quiet again, save for the hum of emergency generators and the low murmur of federal marshals and cleanup crews securing the perimeter.
Down in the subterranean holding facility beneath the mansion’s west wing, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of damp concrete and burning tension.
Dante Rossi—bound tightly to a heavy metal chair, his expensive Italian suit ruined, blood dripping from his split lip—sat blinking furiously under the harsh glare of a single overhead bulb.
The heavy steel door swung open.
Stellan Cross walked in. He wore a fresh black shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the dark ink of his syndicate tattoos. He looked like an executioner stepping onto a scaffold.
Dante forced a cocky, bloodstained grin. “Well, well... Stellan. I hear congratulations are in order. You managed to breed an heir. Too bad she won't live long enough to inherit your parking lots.”
Stellan didn't yell. He didn't rush forward in a blind rage. He walked slowly around Dante’s chair, his footsteps echoing rhythmically off the stone walls.
“Dante,” Stellan said softly, his voice dropping into a lethal hum. “When we divided the city five years ago, I gave you the North Side. I let you run your narcotics, your smuggling, and your petty extortion rings without interference. Do you know why?”
Dante spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “Because you knew I had the votes on the council.”
“No,” Stellan corrected smoothly. “Because I was merciful. I believed that as long as you stayed in your lane, we could coexist.”
Stellan stopped directly in front of Dante, leaning down until their faces were inches apart.
“You crossed the one boundary that cannot be uncrossed,” Stellan whispered. “You brought violence to my home. You threatened my child.”
Dante’s cocky facade finally began to crack as he looked into Stellan’s dead-slate gray eyes. “Stellan... wait. We can talk about a truce! I’ll hand over my shares in the shipping docks! I’ll leave Illinois by morning!”
“You’re not leaving Illinois, Dante,” Stellan straightened up, signaling to two armed enforcers standing in the shadows. “You’re leaving this earth.”
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As Dante’s desperate screams echoed down the concrete corridor, Stellan turned his back, walking out into the cool night air.
The war was over before it truly began. The council would fall in line by morning. And the Chicago underworld would learn a brand-new lesson: Stellan Cross was no longer just an untouchable syndicate boss. He was a father. And that made him unstoppable.
