Wilhelm Dever sat deep in thought, his brow furrowed in indecision. Charlie Lee watched him carefully, feeling an increasing sense of urgency. Time was slipping through their fingers.
If things followed the expected course, Dever would lose the upcoming election in November. Al Capone would emerge from the Philadelphia prison by next year, and although he'd be convicted again for tax evasion in 1931 and eventually sent to Atlanta Prison before his final transfer to Alcatraz, it would take years for his influence to wane completely.
But Charlie couldn't wait five or six years. His ambition burned too fiercely. He needed to seize his moment now—well ahead of the chaos and opportunities that would come with World War II a decade later.
"William, do you want to be remembered as a failure?" Charlie asked, his tone sharp as he confronted Wilhelm. "When people think of you and your family, do you want them to say you were ruined by Capone and forced to step down in disgrace? Is that the legacy you want?"
Charlie wasn't sure if Wilhelm Dever's family carried much weight in Chicago's history. His knowledge of Dever came primarily from brief research into the city's political landscape, but he decided to take a calculated gamble.
His words hit their mark. Dever's face darkened, his expression growing heavier, like the calm before a storm.
"Charlie, I need to see some sincerity from you," Dever said at last, his voice low and tense, betraying his inner turmoil.
"Of course," Charlie replied smoothly. "Just give me a name and an address: Frank Nitti, Paul Ricca, Tony Accardo—or maybe McGurn?"
At the mention of Jack McGurn, Charlie saw Dever's hesitation falter. The infamous St. Valentine's Day Massacre had sent Capone to prison, but Charlie knew Capone still lived like a king behind bars, indulging in fine wine, cigars, and the loyalty of his guards.
Dever's eyes narrowed, as if silently weighing his options. "How can I contact you?" he asked.
"You see the lane across the street? Trust me, you'll figure out which room I'm in," Charlie answered with a wry smile, confident that Dever had no other viable path forward.
"Tonight," Dever said, his voice steady, but his gaze firm.
Charlie nodded, understanding the unspoken message. He knew Dever didn't have much time to work, but he was betting on the man's desperation to deliver results. As Charlie stepped out of City Hall and back into the frigid Chicago air, he allowed himself a small smile.
Back at the modest hotel across the street, Charlie went straight to the bar. "I'm looking for someone like me," he told the bartender casually.
After slipping a few coins across the counter, the bartender provided him with Wang Dagou's room number without hesitation. Privacy in hotels during these times was non-existent if you had money to spare.
"Dog," Charlie called softly as he knocked on the door.
The door creaked open to reveal Wang Dagou, gun in hand, standing cautiously behind it. Charlie chuckled at the sight. "You're learning quickly," he said with a grin.
Wang Dagou scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Well, I've picked up a few tips from others," he replied.
"We're going out tonight," Charlie said, his tone sharp with anticipation. "Get some rest if you're tired. You'll need your strength."
"What are we doing?" Wang Dagou asked, still in the dark about Charlie's plan.
Charlie's eyes gleamed coldly. "We're going to kill."
As the night deepened, the sound of footsteps echoed outside their room. Charlie opened his eyes and watched as an envelope slid under the door, followed by a light knock. After waiting a moment to ensure the coast was clear, he retrieved the envelope.
Inside was a single name and address—simple and direct. Charlie's lips curled into a satisfied grin.
"Let's move," he said, turning to Wang Dagou, who was already awake.
The address led them to the Chestnut Bar, a notorious gathering spot for Chicago's underworld. As they approached the entrance, two towering bouncers stepped in their path.
"Hey, man, we're invited," Charlie said, raising his hands in a gesture of compliance.
But the moment one of the bouncers reached for his waist to search him, Charlie struck. His foot shot forward, landing a brutal kick between the man's legs. As the bouncer doubled over, Charlie turned and delivered a bone-shattering punch to the second man's face.
The second bouncer crumpled to the ground, blood pooling from his broken nose and shattered teeth. Breathing heavily, Charlie gestured for Wang Dagou to help him drag the unconscious men into a nearby alley.
Once the bodies were hidden, Charlie adjusted his disheveled coat and turned to Wang Dagou. "Wait here. I'm going in alone."
Inside, the bar was alive with noise and debauchery. It was exactly as Charlie had imagined—an old-world blend of opulence and chaos. Nearly-naked women danced seductively amidst cigar smoke and the clinking of glasses.
Charlie's sharp eyes scanned the room until they landed on Frank Nitti, lounging in a corner booth. Surrounded by a sea of women and flanked by bodyguards, Nitti appeared drunk and utterly complacent.
Charlie moved with purpose, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference. His hand brushed against the pistols hidden beneath his coat.
"Who sent you?" a voice demanded as a man stepped in Charlie's path.
"Frank," Charlie replied coldly, his tone brooking no argument.
The man hesitated, unsure but unwilling to challenge Charlie further. He waved him through.
As Charlie approached Nitti, his heart beat steadily. The plan had unfolded far more smoothly than he had anticipated.
In one swift motion, Charlie drew both pistols and leveled them at Frank Nitti's chest.
The room fell silent.