The room was dim, shadows stretching across the floor as Gil Felcoms leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes keen. Alphonse Capone sat across from him, the weight of his authority palpable in the air. Despite his outward calm, Alphonse was far from comfortable. He could feel the pressure mounting from all sides—his men running wild, Litzo undermining his control, and now Gil Felcoms, a member of one of the wealthiest families in the country, sitting in front of him, asking pointed questions.
Gil's voice was casual but laced with curiosity. "So, what's going on? I've seen a lot of your men roaming the town, Alphonse. Is there some sort of problem?"
Alphonse forced a smile, though he knew Gil wasn't easy to fool. "No problem at all, sir. Just some routine business. They're searching for a criminal, that's all. Nothing you need to worry about."
As the words left his mouth, Alphonse's mind raced. (I can't let him know the truth.) The last thing he needed was for Gil to find out that his men weren't just hunting a criminal—they were wreaking havoc in the city, stealing, assaulting, and all in the name of some twisted pleasure. Worse, they were supposed to be tracking down the vigilante, someone who had become a thorn in Alphonse's side. But this wasn't something Gil Felcoms needed to know. It was a mess, and Litzo was at the center of it.
Inside, Alphonse seethed. (Litzo, that bastard. If it weren't for Lord Atlas keeping me in check, I'd have already ordered my men to take him out. He's taken my authority, my men, and he acts like he's the one in charge.)
Alphonse maintained his composure, though. The stakes were too high, and Gil Felcoms, despite being young, was a man who could tip the scales of power in Chicago. His family's wealth and connections made them valuable allies—or dangerous enemies.
Gil raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying the smooth explanation Alphonse had given him. "Searching for a criminal, huh?" he asked, his tone light but probing. "Funny, doesn't seem like your style to have so many men on the streets for just a mere criminal."
Alphonse chuckled, trying to deflect. "We like to be thorough, Mr. Felcoms. Can't let anyone slip through the cracks, you know how it is."
But Gil wasn't so easily satisfied. His eyes narrowed just a bit, reading between the lines. "Right. Just a criminal." he muttered, his voice low.
The tension in the room was mirrored by the heavy, dim-lit atmosphere. Shadows cast by the low-hanging chandelier flickered across the polished wooden floor, dancing with each subtle movement of the men inside. The room itself, opulent yet understated, gave off an air of wealth that only those accustomed to power could appreciate. Antique paintings adorned the walls, their subjects watching the unfolding conversation in eerie stillness, while heavy, velvet curtains blocked out the city lights beyond the windows, creating an almost claustrophobic sense of isolation.
Alphonse Capone sat at the large mahogany table in the center of the room, his thick fingers tracing the smooth surface absentmindedly as he processed Gil's words. The faint, rich scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of polished leather from the grand armchairs they sat in. Across from him, Gil Felcoms leaned back with effortless poise, his legs casually crossed. Though his posture was relaxed, his piercing eyes betrayed his intent—always calculating, always assessing. His tailored suit, a dark, deep navy that shimmered faintly under the dim light, fit him perfectly, exuding the kind of wealth that never needed to be announced.
Alphonse shifted in his chair, the leather creaking softly. His suit, though expensive, seemed worn with the burden of the underworld. His tie was slightly loosened, as if the weight of the conversation was tightening around his throat. His fingers twitched as he rested his hand on the table, subtly betraying the unease boiling beneath his hardened exterior.
The silence between the two men hung heavy for a moment, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of a large, antique clock sitting against the far wall. Each second seemed to drag longer than the last as Alphonse weighed his options.
Outside, beyond the windows, the city of Chicago buzzed quietly, but none of that energy seemed to penetrate the room. Instead, the room felt like a vacuum, the world of high stakes and power plays detached from the city they ruled. Occasionally, the distant hum of a passing car or a faint murmur of voices drifted through the thick walls, reminding them of the reality they both held in their grasp.
Gil's smirk remained, as if he knew exactly how much his words were gnawing at Alphonse. He shifted forward, breaking the stillness. The table groaned slightly as his elbow rested on the wood, his fingers steepling together in front of his chin. His movements were deliberate, controlled. Gil's eyes locked onto Alphonse's, the casual charm dropping for just a second to reveal the ruthless mind behind the polished facade.
Breaking the tension, Gil leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. "Look, Alphonse, I didn't come all the way from New York to get caught up in your... local problems. I'm here because my family is interested in an opportunity. So, let's cut through the bullshit, yeah?"
Alphonse, always a man of control, felt a trickle of irritation rise. He wasn't used to being toyed with, least of all by someone younger and from outside his usual sphere of influence. But Gil wasn't just anyone. He was part of the Felcoms, a family whose power stretched far beyond Chicago, beyond the grasp of Alphonse's network. Gil was calm, collected—confident in his position.
The tick-tock of the clock filled the brief pause after Gil's proposition. The weight of the offer hung between them like a loaded gun, and Alphonse knew he had to tread carefully. The Felcoms were offering more than just an alliance. They were offering to pull strings he didn't even know existed. They were offering influence that could tip the scales in a city where Alphonse's power, for all its reach, was showing cracks.
Outside the room, Alphonse's men were prowling the streets, a chaotic force without their usual discipline. The vigilante they sought was more than a thorn in their side; he was a symbol of Alphonse's loss of control, of the breakdown in his empire's foundation. Litzo... Alphonse's thoughts burned with frustration. That man had been a rising problem, someone he should have stamped out earlier, but Lord Atlas had made him untouchable—for now.
Inside, Gil's offer was a chance to regain what was slipping through his fingers.
Gil leaned back once more, giving Alphonse space to think. He glanced to the side, briefly admiring one of the paintings—an old masterpiece of a ship caught in a violent storm. The metaphor wasn't lost on him. His offer was the lifeline, the calm amidst the chaos of Chicago's brewing storm.
Alphonse's eyes flicked towards the clock. Each tick reverberated in his mind, the stakes growing higher with every passing second. He could feel the room closing in around him, as if the very walls were watching, waiting for his decision.
"What kind of opportunity are we talking about?" Alphonse finally asked, his voice steady but laced with suspicion. His hand, now resting on the armrest, tapped lightly, the movement small but telling.
Gil's smirk widened ever so slightly as he saw the opening. He leaned forward again, his voice a whisper of ambition. "My father has his eyes on a few things in this city. Investments, properties, assets. You know, the kind of stuff that runs deep in a place like Chicago."
The shadows seemed to deepen around them, the flickering light from the chandelier casting long, wavering lines across the floor, like cracks forming in the surface of a frozen lake.
Alphonse nodded slowly, listening carefully. He knew the game too well. The Felcoms were circling, ready to pounce, and while they didn't need the Outfit's help, they sure as hell knew how to use it. He could almost hear the gears turning in Gil's mind, each word carefully chosen to guide him toward an inevitable conclusion.
"And in exchange?" Alphonse asked, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had been in the game too long to trust easily.
Gil's smirk grew into a confident grin, one that oozed certainty. He reclined, folding his arms across his chest. "In exchange, we offer you some protection. Influence, Alphonse. The kind that reaches places even the Outfit might struggle with."
Alphonse's mind was already working overtime. Protection. Influence. Internal issues. He knew what Gil was offering—an out. A chance to reassert control over his own men, over those rival he have in Chicago, and maybe even more than that. But it wouldn't come without a cost.
"And what's the catch?" Alphonse asked, knowing full well that nothing came for free.
Gil leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "Just loyalty. We're looking for a partner in this city. Someone we can trust. Someone who knows how to get things done."
Alphonse leaned forward slightly, his thick fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. (Loyalty? he thought. I can do that, for now. But not for long. Once I've solidified my power, that'll be the day I crush anyone who stands in my way—including you, Gil. I'll make you and your family kneel. You think you can control me, kid? You'll learn the hard way.)
Gil could almost read Alphonse's thoughts, the slight twitch in the mob boss's jaw giving him away. (You're so obvious, Alphonse,) Gil thought. (You might think you're playing me, but I'm here for more than just this little partnership. I'm here to prove to my family that I can handle business as well as any of them. And when the time comes, I'll control you, Alphonse Capone. You evil bastard.)
For a moment, neither spoke, their thoughts clashing in the unspoken tension that hung between them. Both men were playing a dangerous game, each one convinced they had the upper hand. But before either could speak, the heavy wooden door to the office swung open with a soft creak.
Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the dim light from the hallway, was Lenore Van Ryn. She moved with an elegance that caught both men's attention immediately, her long dark coat swaying gently as she entered the room. Her heels clicked softly against the hardwood floor, the sound almost swallowed by the heavy silence. Lenore was composed, her face a mask of professionalism, but her sharp eyes flicked between Gil and Alphonse, immediately sensing the tension between them.
"Lenore," Alphonse said, his voice rough but controlled as he leaned back in his chair. He gestured for her to come in, though his attention never fully left Gil. "You are here."
...........
The sprawling villa was bathed in warm afternoon light, its grand halls and luxurious furnishings offering a sense of peace that none of the three boys truly felt. The tension lingered beneath the surface, despite their casual conversation. Chris Hilton leaned back into the plush chair, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room lazily, though his thoughts were far from relaxed. His friends, Mark Fletcher and Loe Halloway, sat across from him, their own minds preoccupied with matters they couldn't discuss openly—at least not with Chris.
"Hmm, it really is nice here, huh?" Chris said, trying to break the silence, his voice light but probing. He could sense something was off between the other two, they were keeping him in the dark.
Mark glanced at Loe before responding. "Well... kinda." he muttered, trying to sound nonchalant, though his eyes darted to Loe as if seeking backup. The two of them had been tense all day, knowing they were on a vigilante mission and unable to share the details with Chris. The less Chris knew, the safer he'd be. But it wasn't easy keeping secrets from someone they'd grown up with.
Chris sighed, reading their body language. "I know you two won't tell me what's been going on. I just... want to know how you both are." His voice softened, genuine concern showing. Even if he couldn't be part of whatever mission they were on, he still cared deeply about his friends.
"We're fine." Mark said quickly, glancing at Loe as if daring him to contradict him.
Loe, being his usual sassy self, couldn't help but take a playful jab. "Well, I'm not fine. Mark's too anxious." he teased, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Mark scoffed, shaking his head. "Hey, I'm not! Okay, maybe a little. But I'm handling it."
Chris laughed, the tension easing just a bit as he was momentarily distracted by their banter. "Typical sassy Loe." he said, shaking his head, but a small smile remained on his face. It was a relief, at least, to see them behaving somewhat normally.
Loe's smirk deepened. "What about you, Chris? How's that bonding with your father going? You know, all that business stuff?"
Chris's expression shifted slightly, the easygoing humor fading just a bit. "Well... I think it's okay. Hard, though."
Loe raised an eyebrow, leaning forward a little. "Must be tough being the All Mighty Hilton." he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
Chris threw a cushion at him, laughing. "Shut up!"
Loe caught the cushion, still smirking, but his sharp gaze drifted back to Mark. The two exchanged a glance—an unspoken understanding passing between them. They knew what they had to do: act normal, keep Chris out of harm's way, and make sure he stayed oblivious to the dangerous mission they were on.
Mark cleared his throat, forcing a smile. "Anyway, it's good to see you're doing well, Chris. Maybe we'll all catch up later over a game or something."
Chris nodded, though he knew the feeling that there was more going on. But He decided not to push it, for now, enjoying the brief moment of laughter between them.
But even as they laughed and joked, the shadows of the villa seemed to grow longer, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on both Loe and Mark. For now, they would keep up the charade—but soon, they knew they'd have to act.
To be continue