Chapter 13 - THE FALL OF MARCUS VANCE
The grand ballroom of the Chicago Athletic Association was bathed in the warm glow of crystal chandeliers.
Fifty guests in tailored suits were sipping mimosas and eating eggs Benedict.
Marcus Vance stood by the massive stone fireplace, holding a crystal glass of champagne.
Julian Vance stood beside him, a glass of bourbon in his unbandaged hand, boasting loudly to a city commissioner about their upcoming harbor contracts.
"By three this afternoon, the Hayes terminals will be under county receivership," Julian said with a smirk.
"Declan Hayes will be in a federal holding cell by sunset."
The double oak doors of the grand ballroom burst open with a resounding crash that rattled the crystal stemware.
Twelve FBI tactical agents armed with suppressed carbines flooded the room, their boots moving in synchronized precision.
"FEDERAL AGENTS! NOBODY MOVE!"
Screams erupted from the tables.
Champagne flutes shattered on the hardwood floor as politicians dove beneath linen tablecloths.
Julian froze, the bourbon sloshing over his fingers.
Marcus Vance did not dive.
He stood tall by the fireplace, his jaw tightening with icy fury as he tapped his gold cane on the floor.
"What is the meaning of this outrage?" Marcus demanded.
"I am Marcus Vance! Call the chief of police immediately!"
Sarah Vance-Cross stepped through the doorway.
She wore her dark federal overcoat, her gold badge displayed openly on her lapel.
Behind her walked Declan Hayes.
He wore his charcoal coat, hands resting comfortably in his pockets, his gaze locked onto Marcus.
Marcus’s face drained of color until it resembled chalk.
"Sarah?" the old man stammered, his aristocratic voice cracking.
"What are you doing?"
Sarah stopped five feet from her father.
"Marcus Vance," she said, her voice ringing clear through the silent ballroom.
"By order of the United States District Court for the Northern District of Illinois,"
"I am placing you under arrest for federal racketeering, maritime smuggling, and conspiracy to commit murder."
Julian Vance stepped forward, panic turning his voice into a high-pitched whine.
"Sarah, look, we're family! You can't do this!"
Declan stepped between Julian and the prosecutor.
Julian recoiled, terrified of the man who had broken his face in the alley yesterday.
"You kidnapped a sick nineteen-year-old girl, Julian," Declan said softly.
"You bruised her sister's throat."
"You aren't family to anyone in this room."
"You're a federal inmate."
Two FBI agents shoved Julian face-first onto a dining table, twisting his arms behind his back and cuffing him with heavy plastic ties.
Julian began to weep openly, begging his father to fix it.
Marcus Vance looked at his daughter.
His hand trembled violently against the gold head of his cane.
"You would destroy your own name, Sarah?"
"The Vance name was built on blood and extortion, Father," Sarah replied without an ounce of pity.
"It ends today."
A federal agent stepped forward and removed the gold cane from Marcus’s hand.
They turned the old patriarch around, kicking his feet apart and clicking steel cuffs around his liver-spotted wrists.
Marcus Vance was marched out of the grand ballroom through a gauntlet of stunned politicians and journalists who had gathered in the lobby.
Declan walked out onto the street.
The storm had finally stopped.
The heavy snow clouds were parting over Lake Michigan, letting brilliant shafts of winter sunlight pierce the Chicago skyline.
The air was freezing, sharp, and clean.
Declan took a deep, full breath.
May you like
For the first time in his life, the city did not feel like a battleground.
It felt like home.
