BY JOHN-PAUL COTE
This is an excerpt from a novel-in-progress. Copyright is held by the author.
1925.
America.
Prohibition.
Chicago Heights. A suburb of Chicago, Illinois. Serving Chicago and the greater area. A population of over three million.
That was a lot of thirsty mouths.
And The Roman satisfied them all.
Roman Cheznick walked out of his deli and café, lighting a cigar as he did. He was king of Chicago Heights. A true American story of rags to riches, arriving in 1905 with nothing and building himself up to become the royalty of his little realm. The politicians? His. The law? His. Both bought and paid for.
The café was the centre of his empire. Out front it was a late-night spot to enjoy a coffee and a fine dessert from the old country. In the back, though, was the real business. Booze. Broads. Gambling. Drugs. Everything and anything you could wish for as long as you had the bills and coins in your pocket to pay for them. By the end of the night, though, it all would be in the Roman’s pockets.
The Roman puffed on his cigar and looked at the night sky. It was quiet and clear. Something wasn’t right though. He looked down the street and saw a car driving just a little too slowly. He watched as it approached. The eyes of the driver came into view under the lights as it neared.
They were staring at him.
It was then The Roman realized he didn’t feel that usual little tingle and tickle he always did when he left the café.
He looked back.
He sensed an absence.
The spells were down.
Nothing was protecting the building.
They had been betrayed.
The car rolled passed.
The driver smiled.
From the back seat, a fireball erupted. The Roman dove for cover. Out of reaction rather than thought, he cast a shield spell that took the brunt of the force. The café exploded in a blinding flash. The roar of the fire deafened him. Even then, he was thrown to the ground, rained upon by broken glass and pieces of wood and splinters. The heat lick at his face and the stench of burning wood and flesh filling his nose.
The car sped up and tore down the street as men came running out of nearby buildings.
The Roman’s head was spinning. His vision foggy. His body shaking. His ears ringing.
The next thing he knew, he was being helped up. Some of his men were using their magics to control the fire. As his ears cleared, he heard the screams around him. Sirens of the approaching fire trucks. He stood and looked into the café. The bodies of his brother, Carmine, and one of his lieutenants, Bixby, were somehow still sitting in their chairs, burning.
“Boss! Boss! Are you alright?” Someone next to him asked in a panic. It was one of his boys.
The Roman watched as the fire was slowly being brought under control. Then he thought of those eyes. He knew those eyes.
Venna.
“Boss! Did you see who did this?”
“It was the brothers. The Venna brothers. Those sons-a-bitches.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“Get me The Ogre.”
***
Venna’s pharmacy and soda shop was a popular spot in town with the young people. Nothing was better on a hot afternoon than a chocolate or vanilla malt with friends. It was music and good times. The air was thick with the hum of chatter and laughter.
Nobody saw the truck barrelling down the street.
As it hit the curb, the front of it launched off the ground and through the front door and windows.
Panic gripped everyone as the glass shattered and sprayed everywhere. People dove for cover. Others tried to run. They all were terrified.
The truck landed. Chester “The Ogre” Johnston stepped out, towering nearly eight feet tall, and wider than a doorframe. His hand-tailored suit barely contained his rippling muscles, and his cocked hat cast a shadow over his eyes. He smiled as he walked forward, raising both arms which held Thompson machine guns with one hundred round drums. The Ogre imagined that he heard music as he pulled the triggers, the sounds of the weapons reminding him of his favourite opera, Tosca. Love and betrayal. He closed his eyes and began to sing the aria “E lucevan le stelle” with his deep bass voice as the world exploded around him in his beloved violence.
Svani per sempre il sogno mio d’amore.
L’ora è fuggita,
e muoio disperato!
Terrified screams filled the air as people scrambled for cover, but there was no escaping The Ogre’s opera of destruction.
Soon, the music stopped as his guns were empty. It was then he felt the impact of three magic missiles on his chest. They did little against his grey leather-like skin but they did burn through his suit. Anger boiled to the surface as The Ogre set his eyes on the caster. He strode forward while the man did nothing, frozen in terror. Johnston grabbed him and threw him through the ceiling.
He felt the sting of bullets impacting on his back. Tearing a refrigerator from the floor, The Ogre turned and hurled it across the room, crushing the two men who were foolish enough not to run when they could have.
Searching the chaos that once was the store, Johnston found one more man hiding behind a counter. Gripping it with both hands, he slowly pulled the counter from the floor and threw it into the pharmacy, destroying shelves and a wall. He reached down and grabbed the man. The man had wet himself but Johnston noticed this too late and stepped in the puddle. His Italian alligator shoes were ruined.
“Where are they?” He growled. His breath was appalling. His teeth looked more like tusks than anything human. “Where’s Frank? Where’s Louie?”
“I don’t know! Dear gods, I don’t know! They’ve been out of town since yesterday! I swear!”
Johnston dropped him back to the ground.
“You tell them The Roman says ‘Hi’.”
As he walked out, The Ogre adjusted his tie, blood and glass glistened on his shoes. He resumed his aria, the soft notes drifting into the ruined street like a final, mocking farewell.
e muoio disperato!
E non ho amato mai tanto la vita!
Tanto la vita!
***
Four weeks of gang war.
Four weeks of blood on the streets. Combatants and civilians as the innocent were caught in the crossfire of hoodlums blasting each other at every chance.
Four weeks of raids. The Roman blowing up the Vennas’ stills. The Vennas’ burning down The Roman’s gambling dens.
And, much worse, the police raiding both. The politicians and law enforcement could no longer turn their gaze and were finally forced to act.
It all meant, four weeks without out business. No booze. No broads. No gambling. No drugs.
The Roman’s empire slowly crumbled around him.
Then came the summons from Chicago.
The head of the family demand to see them both.
A summons to kneel at the feet of the lord high master of the family was rare but in this case it was not unexpected. There was little charity in the family or tolerance for such doings. It was bad for business and business was everything. The cash must flow.
Arriving at the Federal Reserve Building, both sides exited their vehicles. The Roman with the Ogre casting his mountain of a shadow and his men. The Venna brothers with theirs. As they climbed the steps, a gentleman dressed in a dark, finely tailored suit approached. He cast a grey pall over the area, extending a feeling of dread.
This was the lord’s man, Blackmoor.
“Gentlemen,” he said in a hushed voice. He could barely be heard but he did not need to be. He represented a power that spoke volumes. “Please follow me.”
The Federal Reserve Building was one of the largest in the city, if not the largest. A true monument of marble. Huge glass windows casting down the sunlight that lit the entrance. The dark marble floor tiles contrasted against the white marble of the walls. As they ventured deeper into the building, the sunlight from the grand windows vanished, replaced by the dim flicker of torches in the gloom. The walls seemed to close in. It felt less like a building now and more like a tomb, devoid of life other than Blackmoor and themselves. The silence was only broken by the sound of their footsteps.
And then before them appeared the vault.
Blackmoor stood beside the huge open metal door and showed them in. They came to the catwalks which were as dark as the building with little torch light. But below them was both brilliance and shadows. Gold as far as could be seen lit by the flicker of torches. There was also a low grumble and the smell of sulphur. Something moving from the light to the shadows but never fully in either. Something massive.
Balmut.
“Mr. Balmut requires a cessation of hostilities between your two groups and a return to the normalcy of business,” the grey man said.
“They started this thing,” The Roman growled. “They killed my brother. Blew up my business…”
“He made this happen by not sharing the wealth,” Frank Venna interrupted. “A family has got to earn something. What he does isn’t right!”
“SILENCE!”
The word felt like an explosion in this space. The catwalks shook with its power. Out from the darkness rose the head and neck of Balmut.
The ancient red dragon was a towering force of destruction and malice, its scales gleaming like molten metal — each one a brilliant, fiery crimson that rippled with heat. Its eyes glowed with an infernal light, twin embers filled with the promise of death and suffering. Jagged horns curled back from its skull, blackened as though scorched by the fires of its own breath. Its massive wings, leathery and tattered, were powerful enough to blot out the sky, with each beat sending waves of oppressive heat through the air.
Its fanged maw, filled with rows of dagger-like teeth, constantly smouldered with the stench of sulphur and brimstone. When Balmut spoke, its voice was deep and terrifying, carrying the crackling undercurrent of fire ready to burst forth. The dragon’s talons, sharp and black as obsidian, could tear through flesh, stone, and steel alike, while its tail, lined with deadly spikes, could smash through buildings with ease.
The strong stench made the men cough as The Lord of Dragons breathed in and out. Its eyes tore into their souls. For men who never knew fear, they felt it now. The Roman’s heart pounded in his chest, sweat beading on his brow.
This was a true tyrant, a conqueror whose cruelty knew no bounds.
“ENOUGH OF YOUR PETTY SQUABBLING! I CARE NOT FOR YOUR PITIFUL EXCUSES. ONLY FOR THE FLOW OF GOLD INTO MY HORDE!”
“Yes, Mr. Balmut,” The Roman and the Venna brothers said as they lowered themselves to their knees before their mighty lord.
“Vennas, you will be given Calumet City and all those lands south and west in our territories of Thornton and Worth as yours to run. Roman, you will continue as head of Chicago Heights, the areas north, west, and east of it in our territories including into Indiana, and in case of disputes, you will see to the dispensation of rule. AM I CLEAR?”
“Yes, Mr. Balmut.”
“As a fine for your actions, you the Vennas will pay three million dollars in indemnities. Roman, you will pay one million. Both due in five days.” The ancient dragon rose to the ceiling, dwarfing the men present, showing his golden underside. “AM I CLEAR?”
“Yes, Mr. Balmut.”
No one needed say what would happen if the deadline was missed.
The Lord of Chicago lowered himself and disappeared below the catwalks onto his treasure horde. Blackmoor motioned for the group to leave. As they walked down the steps to their vehicles, The Roman and the Venna brothers exchanged looks. This was far from over. The only question was who made the next move and what would it be.
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***

John-Paul lives in St. Catharines, Ontario with his wife and two children. He’s been writing for years and is a fan of Sci-fi and fantasy. His stories have appeared in the Niagara-On-The-Lakes’ Writers Circle’s anthologies Beginnings and Endings and Journeys as well as on sites such as CommuterLit, DarkWinterLit, The Writer’s Journal, and Jerry Jazz Musician. He is a person of few words, so he enjoys writing short stories and novellas the most.