Chapter 2 - The Severed Line
Preston’s smirk froze. A ripple of horrified realization swept through the room as three prominent aldermen sitting near the fountain hurriedly stood up, abandoned their coats, and moved toward the kitchen service exit, desperate to remove themselves from the blast radius.
"Dennis," Dominic said without looking back.
The restaurant manager stumbled forward, his hands trembling so violently he nearly tripped over his own dress shoes. "Mr. Vale... please. I... I didn't know she was with you. Miss Hayes—I mean, Mrs. Vale—she applied under a standard hospitality resume. If I had known—"
"You watched six men pin my wife to the floor," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "You watched them take a blade to her head while she begged for security. And you stood behind the bar calculating the gratuity on a vintage bottle of Dom Pérignon."
Dennis dropped to his knees on the marble floor, sobbing openly. "Mr. Vale, please... I have children in Evanston... I was just trying to protect the house revenue—"
"You no longer have a house to protect," Dominic replied coldly. "Mateo, call the State Liquor Authority and the building landlord. Revoke the master lease. The Monarch Room ceases operations at midnight."
Dominic turned back to Table Twelve.
He pulled a sleek, matte-black satellite phone from his overcoat pocket, dialed a single digit on the keypad, and placed the phone on speaker, setting it squarely between Preston’s salad fork and water glass.
Two rings sounded through the cavernous dining hall before a deep, exhausted voice answered on the other end:
"Dominic? Why are you calling my private line at ten at night?"
The voice belonged to Marcus Hale—Preston’s father, the most powerful real estate titan in the Midwest.
Preston stared at the glowing screen, the color draining from his face until he looked like a corpse in a dinner jacket. "Dad...?"
"Preston? What are you doing with Dominic Vale?" Marcus Hale’s voice sharpened instantly with sudden, frantic dread. "Dominic, what is going on? Is this about the mezzanine financing on the River North towers?"
"Marcus," Dominic spoke into the microphone, his tone as casual as if discussing the morning weather over coffee. "Your son is currently sitting in the Monarch Room with five of his associates. Ten minutes ago, he held my wife by the throat and shaved half her hair onto the floor for a social media video."
A concussive, breathless silence fell over the phone line.
Then came the sound of Marcus Hale’s glass crashing against a desk three miles away, followed by a raw, suffocating gasp.
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"Dominic... no. My God, no. Dominic, he didn't know! He’s a reckless boy, he’s drunk—"
"He has two minutes to call his attorney," Dominic interrupted softly. "Because by dawn, the Hale Corporation will not own a single square foot of dirt in the State of Illinois."
