On the same day, when Charlie Lee left the manor riddled with bullet holes and strewn with corpses, the city of Chicago launched a massive search operation.
William Dever, the mayor himself, stormed into the Chicago police headquarters and sat across from the police chief, his expression calm but his presence commanding as the chief gave out orders.
From that moment on, Dever knew that his relationship with the Capone group had completely unraveled. The previous night's attack was the final act of defiance, tearing apart any remaining pretense of civility between them.
Everyone in Chicago knew the significance of the destroyed manor—it wasn't just any property; it had belonged to Dever's wife, inherited from her father, and held deep sentimental value. The Italian Mafia's brazen assault had obliterated it, filling Dever with both seething anger and an underlying fear.
"Do these bastards really think they can openly challenge the federal government?" he muttered to himself, his political instincts flaring. As a seasoned politician, he knew how to position himself in the narrative. While the federal government technically lacked jurisdiction over local law enforcement, Dever also understood the power of public outrage and his ability to weaponize it.
If the Capone group escalated further, Dever wouldn't hesitate to take his grievances directly to Washington, demanding federal intervention under the guise of representing Chicago's collective fury. Whether the people would actually back him or not didn't matter—he was the mayor, and that was all the authority he needed.
"Hello?" The police chief, Grant Fowser, picked up a ringing phone, irritation evident in his voice as he tried to focus amidst the chaos.
"I need to speak to Mayor Dever. Tell him an old friend is calling," said an unfamiliar voice on the other end. Grant's brows furrowed in suspicion, but he had little choice but to hand the phone to the mayor.
"William, I think it's time you gave me the list," said Charlie Lee, seated in a secluded spot in District 22, his tone calm but with an edge of amusement.
"Where?" Dever asked curtly, glancing at Grant, whose suspicious gaze lingered. The mayor felt the weight of the situation pressing down on him—was this call meant to expose their connection?
"District 22. Hand it to any Chinese, and they'll get it to me," Charlie replied, his words laced with double meaning before promptly hanging up.
Calling the police station wasn't just a logistical move; it was a deliberate statement. Charlie wanted the world to know that Dever had a capable ally. He understood that survival in this ruthless city demanded visibility and strength. By making his presence known, Charlie was positioning himself as an indispensable force in Chicago's power dynamics.
As he hung up the phone, Charlie's thoughts shifted to his next move. The Capone group needed another lesson—one that would remind them they weren't dealing with just another insignificant upstart.
"Boss, some gangs have started fighting over territory," Monk, one of Charlie's trusted men, reported as he approached. "The Zach gang from the West Side and the Devil gang from Hebei have already gone to war."
"Anyone causing trouble here?" Charlie asked, uninterested in the squabbles of lesser groups.
"Yes," Monk replied. "Two blocks from here, a small gang called Samoud has been collecting protection fees every month. Their next collection is tomorrow."
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "You didn't resist?"
"They have guns," Monk admitted bluntly.
"Well, now we have guns too," Charlie said with a grin, tapping the Python revolver at his waist. "Take some men tomorrow and give them a little surprise."
"Yes, boss," Monk said, excitement lighting up his face. The gang's newfound arsenal of Chicago Typewriters gave them a confidence they hadn't felt before.
"Charlie," called Wang Dagou, approaching from a distance as Monk left to prepare.
"Did you find more ammo?" Charlie asked.
"Yes, but the price has doubled," Wang Dagou replied, his face dark with frustration.
"Pay them. We need the bullets. These men need to improve their aim fast," Charlie said, recalling the poor marksmanship he'd witnessed the previous night. It was an investment he couldn't afford to skimp on.
With that settled, Charlie began walking along the makeshift fence surrounding their base in District 22, his mind racing with plans. This area could become their stronghold—a base of operations in Chicago. The Chinese community here offered both a sense of familiarity and a network of resources he could trust.
"Chinatown can attract more Chinese immigrants to settle here," Charlie mused to himself. "We'll support them in setting up businesses, expanding outward until this becomes a network spanning the entire city."
The thought reminded him of the global chains of noodle shops and convenience stores he'd seen in his previous life. But instead of just funding the businesses, Charlie envisioned a system of shared stakes and partnerships—a structure that would bind the community together into an unshakable economic force.
"Boss?" Monk's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Charlie looked up to see Bergman hesitating nearby, her eyes filled with uncertainty.
"Come here," he called to her. When she approached, he asked, "What do you want?"
"Can I leave now?" she asked hesitantly, her tone betraying a mix of fear and reluctance.
Charlie looked at her for a moment, considering her request. "It's not safe out there right now," he said. With the city on edge—police searching, Mafia factions regrouping, and gang skirmishes erupting—Bergman's chances of making it to the airport or train station unscathed were slim.
"Do they really treat federal law like it's meaningless?" she asked, horrified by the lawlessness Charlie described.
"In this country, the law is just a tool for the powerful to manipulate," Charlie replied bluntly.
Bergman hesitated before asking, "Can you help me get out of here?"
"Wait a few days," Charlie said, sitting down on a patch of sparse grass and leaning back on his hands to gaze at the sky.
"Are you part of the Mafia?" she asked suddenly. The question had clearly been weighing on her mind.
"No," Charlie answered firmly, but then he smiled wryly and added, "I want to do legitimate business. Like… arms trading."
"Why does everything have to involve violence and crime?" Bergman asked, her voice tinged with frustration and sadness.
"Because to survive here—to live with dignity—you need power. And fear is power," Charlie said, his eyes steady as he met hers.
"You could try working hard or starting a business," she suggested earnestly.
Charlie chuckled darkly. "Do you think someone like me, with my skin color, would get fair treatment here?"
He didn't have the luxury of waiting for society to change. History had shown him that respect and equality were never given freely—they had to be seized. Charlie wasn't willing to let his future or his descendants' futures be dictated by the whims of a system rigged against them.
If Bergman wanted to cling to her ideals, she was free to do so. But Charlie had no illusions about the realities of life in Chicago. Here, power wasn't optional—it was essential.