Chapter 7 - The Cleansing of the North Side
By dawn, the rain had arrived, washing the fresh blood from the gravel driveway into the storm drains of the estate.
Stellan didn't wait for the city to wake up. He left Vincent Kane to handle the cleanup of the mansion—a process that involved a specialized team of private sanitation workers and two city garbage trucks that had been rerouted by a compliant precinct captain—and drove down to the Barrett family estate in Alamo Heights.
He brought Dominic with him, cuffed to the floorboards of the rear seat, his face covered in a black canvas hood.
The Barrett mansion was silent when Stellan’s vehicle breached the gates. Old man Thomas Barrett was waiting in his study, sitting by a cold fireplace, a single glass of whiskey on the table beside his oxygen tank. Julian stood behind him, looking like a man who had already spent three days in a coffin.
Stellan walked into the study without knocking, dragging Dominic behind him by the chains of his handcuffs. He tossed the eldest son onto the Persian rug at his father's feet, removing the hood with a sharp yank.
"He’s alive, Thomas," Stellan said, his voice flat, carrying the immense, crushing weight of a winter storm. "But he’s going to spend the next thirty years in a federal prison in Florence, Colorado. Vincent just handed the DA the complete financial ledger of every municipal union fraud Dominic has run since 2018, alongside the forensic ballistic reports from the sixty weapons my guys recovered from my hallway tonight."
Thomas Barrett didn't look at his eldest son. He looked at Stellan, his old mouth trembling against his oxygen mask. "You ruined us, Stellan. In one night, you wiped out forty years of our work."
"You ruined yourselves when you forgot what family means," Stellan said, leaning down to look at Julian, who flinched away from him. "Julian... your brother tried to kill your daughter last night. He brought sixty men to blow up the room she was sleeping in because he was afraid of an inheritance split."
Julian’s face went pale, his eyes darting down to his brother on the floor. "Dominic... you told me you were just going to recover the files. You told me she’d be safe."
"She is safe," Stellan said, standing up straight and pulling a heavy leather folder from his coat. He dropped it into Thomas Barrett’s lap. "These are the transfer deeds for every North Side dock asset your family owns. You sign them over to Nora Vale’s trust by noon today. Julian... you sign a permanent, irrevocable waiver of all parental rights and leave the state of Illinois by sunset. If I see your face in this city tomorrow morning, I’m going to let Vincent handle the collection."
Old man Thomas Barrett looked down at the documents, his wrinkled hands trembling as he picked up a gold fountain pen from the desk. He didn't look at his sons; he knew the dynasty was over. The Barrett name was dead in Chicago, replaced by the silent, absolute authority of the Cross line.
May you like
"She’s a Cross," the old man whispered as he signed the first deed. "She’ll rule this city before she’s thirty, won't she?"
"She won't have to rule anything," Stellan said, taking the signed papers back and sliding them into his coat. "She’s going to be a child. Something none of us ever got to be."
