Chapter 8 - THE KINGDOM FALLS
The federal marshals didn't wait for Dominic to recover his breath.
Two of them stepped smoothly on either side of his chair, their hands resting firmly on his shoulders. They didn't slap handcuffs on him—not yet—out of respect for the Meridian Hotel’s high-profile venue, but the message was unmistakable.
“Mr. Vale,” the lead marshal said quietly. “You need to come with us now. Voluntarily.”
Dominic looked around the grand ballroom. Hundreds of Chicago’s most powerful people—politicians, investors, shipping executives, old-money families, lawyers, and nightclub owners—were staring at him. The very same men who had clapped for him ten minutes ago were now turning their heads away, refusing to catch his eye, instantly calculating how to distance themselves from a sinking ship before the spray hit them.
Vanessa was already backing away from the table, her face flushed with humiliation, grabbing her designer handbag and hurrying toward the exit without looking back once.
“Wait,” Dominic stammered, looking frantically at the federal investigator. “I need to call my attorney—!”
“Your legal counsel has already been notified, Mr. Vale,” the investigator replied smoothly. “They’re currently waiting for you at the federal holding facility downtown.”
The marshals gently but firmly lifted Dominic out of his chair.
As they hauled him backward up the central aisle—past the sea of white-clothed tables, past the glittering chandeliers, past the people who had bowed to his simulated power for a decade—Dominic caught my eye one last time.
There was no arrogance left in his expression. No condescension. No cold, detached dismissal.
There was only a terrifying, hollow realization that he had spent his entire life playing a game he never actually understood, against an opponent who had owned the board before he even sat down.
When the heavy double doors closed behind him and the federal agents, a collective exhale swept through the ballroom, sounding like wind rushing through an empty canyon.
Richard Mercer let out a low, approving rumble, turning to me with a faint smile.
“Well,” Richard said softly. “That was handled with the appropriate amount of dignity. Your father would have smiled.”
“My father would have skipped the formalities and had him thrown in the river,” I replied dryly, taking a sip of the sparkling water Richard handed me.
“True,” Richard laughed, raising his glass. “Shall we address the room? The city council president looks like he’s about to faint from curiosity.”
I looked out across the ballroom. Hundreds of expectant faces were still staring at us, waiting to see who would step into the vacuum left by the fallen King of the Lake.
May you like
I smoothed the midnight-blue silk of my gown, adjusted my posture, and took a step forward onto the raised dais.
“Let’s tell them a story, Richard,” I said. “About how business is really done in Chicago.”
