Chapter 5 - The Ambush at the Union League
At 1:15 p.m. on Friday, the grand mahogany-paneled dining room of the historic Union League Club of Chicago on Jackson Boulevard was convened for the annual Great Lakes Maritime and Private Equity Luncheon.
Seated at the central raised dais was Samantha Cole.
Dressed in an exquisite ivory designer dress, her blonde hair styled in a salon blowout, sporting a five-carat diamond tennis bracelet, Samantha was holding court with six daughters of prominent city developers, laughing as she reviewed a luxury travel catalog for St. Barts.
"Clarissa was always so tragically predictable," Samantha was cooing, taking a delicate sip of vintage champagne. "She actually thought she could walk into Luca DeLuca's private booth without consequence. Daddy said the police processed her early this morning, and by Monday, the entire Robinson trust issue will be permanently dissolved."
The heavy carved double oak doors of the dining hall swung open with a resounding, concussive crash that echoed off the vaulted frescoed ceilings.
The eighty high-society figures and corporate partners seated across the room fell into an immediate, paralyzed silence.
Stepping into the dining hall was Clarissa Robinson.
I wore an immaculate, custom-tailored scarlet three-piece wool suit with gold buttons, radiating the absolute, uncontested dominance of a sovereign returning to her province.
Walking beside me, holding my hand with quiet, lethal grace, was Luca DeLuca.
Following behind us were Arthur Ross, Detective Marcus Thorne, and two uniformed Chicago Police captains carrying heavy leather litigation cases stamped with the seal of the State Attorney General.
Samantha set her crystal flute down with a sharp clatter, her eyes widening in sheer, unvarnished horror as her breath caught in her throat.
"Clarissa...?" Samantha stammered, leaping to her feet, knocking her chair backward onto the parquet floorboards. "What... what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in central processing!"
I walked down the center aisle between the linen-covered tables with slow, measured, unhurried steps. Every eye in the room moved from my tailored red suit to the massive mob don walking at my side.
I stopped two feet from Samantha’s table.
"I didn't go to central processing, Samantha," I said, my voice smooth, resonant, and carrying cleanly across the silent hall. "Your father and Arthur Vance went instead."
Samantha’s face drained of every drop of color, leaving her skin the shade of wet drywall. "You lie! My father is meeting with the state banking committee right now!"
"Your father was arrested for corporate fraud and capital homicide three hours ago, Miss Cole," Detective Marcus Thorne announced, stepping forward and displaying a certified state warrant. "And you are being placed under arrest for criminal conspiracy, attempted narcotics framing, and grand extortion under Title 18."
Samantha shrieked, backing against the linen table, her manicured fingers clawing at the air. "Clarissa! We’re best friends! I gave you clothes! I invited you to my birthday parties! You can't let these men arrest me!"
I looked at the woman who had spent six years smiling at me while waiting for my destruction.
"You were never my friend, Samantha," I whispered softly. "You were an executioner who forgot that the woman you dared to cross was the rightful owner of the table."
May you like
Two female officers stepped forward, twisting Samantha’s arms behind her back and ratcheting heavy steel handcuffs around her wrists over her ivory gown.
As Samantha was escorted through the dining room in tears, screaming frantic curses before the city’s social elite, Luca took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, leading me out into the bright afternoon sunshine of Chicago.
