Chapter 12 - Morning of the Vultures
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At 7:55 AM, a freezing winter sun struggled to pierce the heavy gray clouds hanging over Lake Forest.
Inside the grand formal dining room of the Sterling estate, the crystal chandelier was lit at half-power, casting long, funereal shadows across the twenty-foot mahogany table. Five men in dark, somber suits sat around the sides of the table—the five district capos who controlled everything from the O’Hare freight terminals to the South Side union halls.
At the head of the table— standing directly behind Lucian’s empty high-backed leather chair—was Victor Halstead.
At sixty-two, wearing a black cashmere suit with a mourning band already pinned to his lapel, Victor looked the very picture of a solemn, burdened statesman. On the polished wood in front of him sat a thick leather binder and the crystal Macallan decanter brought down from the third-floor library.
"Gentlemen, I know the suddenness of this tragedy has shaken us all," Victor said, resting both palms on the back of Lucian’s empty chair and bowing his silver head gravely. "The doctors at the private clinic in Streeterville did everything in their power through the night, but at 2:40 AM, Lucian’s heart gave out completely. The preliminary toxicology screen shows a massive dose of aconite alkaloid."
Around the table, the five capos exchanged tense, suspicious glances. Big Enzo Castiglione, who had run the West Loop casinos for Lucian’s father before Lucian took over, leaned back in his chair and chewed on an unlit cigar.
"Aconite doesn't fall out of the sky into a thirty-four-year-old man’s drink, Victor," Enzo growled. "Lucian had this place locked down tighter than Fort Knox. How the hell does poison get into the third-floor library?"
"Through the one person none of us ever suspected," Victor replied smoothly, opening his leather binder and sliding five printed folders across the mahogany table toward the capos. "The quiet little housekeeper who has been pouring his coffee for two years. Clara Hayes. At five-fifteen yesterday afternoon, our gate guards saw her walk out the front door with a suitcase. By the time Lucian came home and drank his evening scotch at nine, she had already vanished. And when I checked her background late last night, I discovered the Irish syndicate in St. Louis wired forty-two thousand dollars to her late father’s hospital account two years ago to plant her here."
Murmurs of outrage rippled around the dining table as the capos flipped through the forged routing slips Victor had prepared.
"Where is the girl now?" demanded Matteo, the youngest capo from the North Shore.
"My men intercepted her trying to board a train south last night," Victor lied without blinking an eye. "Unfortunately, she took a cyanide capsule before they could bring her back here for questioning. Her body is already at the bottom of the sanitary canal."
Victor straightened his gold-rimmed spectacles and reached for the crystal decanter on the table, uncorking the stopper with a soft chime.
"With Lucian gone and no blood heirs left to carry the Sterling name," Victor continued solemnly, pouring five small glasses of amber scotch and sliding them toward the capos before pouring a sixth glass for himself, "the New York Commission called me an hour ago. To prevent a bloody street war over the Chicago territories, they have ratified my temporary assumption of the boss's chair—effective immediately. I ask you all to raise your glasses in memory of Lucian Sterling, and to a new era of stability."
The five capos hesitated, their fingers resting on the stems of the crystal glasses.
"Funny thing about that scotch, Victor," a deep, arctic voice echoed from the double oak doors at the far end of the dining room.
Every man at the table froze as if struck by lightning.
Victor’s hand violently jerked, spilling amber liquid across his black cuffs as the heavy oak doors swung wide open.
Standing in the threshold, flanked by Roman and twelve heavily armed guards dressed in tactical black, was Lucian Sterling.
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He wore a bespoke three-piece charcoal suit, looking more alive, more lethal, and more terrifying than any man in that room had ever seen him. And walking calmly right beside him—wearing an emerald cashmere coat with her hand tucked securely over Lucian’s forearm—was Clara Hayes.
"You told them I died at two-forty in the morning," Lucian murmured, walking slowly down the length of the mahogany table while the five capos scrambled to their feet in sheer terror. "And you told them Clara jumped into a canal. So tell me, Victor... why hasn't anyone drunk their toast yet?"
