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Not in Chicago. For decades, Chicago has been a strict dictatorship. They often try to give the illusion of fairness within the ranks, and the men play along to feel important, but nobody is truly fooled. One man runs it all. One man makes all the rules. One man decides whether you live or die.
Because of this, New York and Chicago have had a rocky relationship from the beginning. Sometimes they love each other, sometimes they hate each other, but there is always a bit of lingering jealousy. For the bosses in the east crave the independence the Chicago Don holds, while the men in the Windy City yearn for more control.
Under Antonio DeMarco’s reign, the cities maintained open communication, but that had since fallen apart. They had taken to calling on each other for favors whenever one needed something, strained allies in a bigger war, but the last time someone in New York called, Salvatore ignored their pleas.
And if you aren’t friends, you may as well be enemies.
Bitter blood simmered and deals were kept off the record, money passing between the cities under the bosses’ noses. No one knew if they were fully aware of what went on, if they got a taste when all was said and done, but one thing was undeniable: the respect was dead.
Because of that, everyone was fair game, and they wouldn’t hesitate to turn against each other. They found themselves in tumultuous times . . . another source of contention Corrado didn’t want to have to deal with.
“Where are we with this casino deal?” Sal asked, swirling scotch around in his glass as he casually lounged in a chair in his den. Men sat around quietly, some steadily drinking while others, like Corrado, were just biding time until they could go.
Silence strangled the room. Nobody answered.
“It’s like that?” Sal asked, bitterness lacing his voice. “None of you have anything to say? You’re supposed to be the best, but none of you can talk? None of you can make this happen?”
“It’s impossible,” a Capo muttered from the other side of the room. “It can’t be done, Boss.”
“Nonsense,” Sal said. “Nothing’s impossible.”
With so much heat on the organization, the Fed’s attention focused on their dealings close to home, Sal was shifting business elsewhere. But while they had been busy maintaining control of a chaotic Chicago, clashing with the Russians while dealing with a long-standing Irish feud, their New York counterparts had spread throughout the country. The problem with that, however, was those factions held a grudge, so all Sal faced were roadblocks and swift denials when trying to expand.
Nobody wanted to do business with the Salamander.
“The guy who owns the casino grew up in Manhattan,” the Capo explained. “He’s under protection. We can’t funnel money through there without approval, and they ain’t giving it. Not to you.”
“Make them,” Sal said. “Don’t let them say no.”
“Start another war? Over a casino?”
Sal shook his head, taking a small swig from his glass. “It’s principle.”
“It’s suicide.”
A dry, unmistakable laugh cut through the room. Corrado turned his head to where Carlo stood, casually leaning against the wall. “Since when are we cowards? We don’t back down or ask for permission. We take what we want.”
Sal nodded. “I’m glad someone here gets it.”
“Of course,” Carlo said. “And don’t worry about it, Boss. You need their cooperation? I’ll get it. I have ways. You know these kind of deals are my specialty.”
A sinister smile twisted Sal’s mouth. “I know I can count on you.”
Murmurs filtered through the room in waves, but Corrado remained silent, waiting until Sal dismissed them with a flippant wave of the hand. He stood up, nodding to the boss before heading out of the mansion.
Corrado drove straight home, finding his house dark and quiet. There was no sign of Celia anywhere, and for once, Corrado was grateful to return to an empty home. He packed a bag, not even bothering to turn on a light, and scribbled a quick note to his wife.
Don’t wait up for me.
Celia wouldn’t. She didn’t anymore. She knew if he hadn’t arrived by a certain hour, he likely wouldn’t make it home that night, so she would go to bed with nothing but hope in her heart that she would see him the next day—alive and well and about as whole as a man like him could possibly be.
* * *
Corrado headed to the airport that night, buying a ticket on a red-eye flight to Washington, D.C. His plane landed close to dawn and he rented a car, driving to a small diner on the other side of Arlington, Virginia. He had been there twice before, years ago, in the company of the man he was looking for that morning.
The quaint diner was fairly empty at that early hour, all of the booths vacant, with a few customers scattered along the stools around the bar. A bell above the door chimed when Corrado walked inside, everyone casually turning to look at him except for the one he was there to see. Corrado slid onto the stool beside him, their elbows ever so slightly brushing. The man tensed, a cup of coffee halfway to his lips, as his eyes slid toward Corrado.
Corrado tipped his head slightly in greeting. “Senator Brolin.”
