882 The Mafia Boss Signed the Divorce Papers Until He Heard His Wife Tell Her Mother Why She Spent Three Years Pretending to Hate Him

The fourth-floor corridor of the Daley Center was dead silent, save for the click of Elena’s boots against the polished terrazzo floor.

Dante walked beside her, his shoulders broad beneath his dark overcoat, his eyes scanning the frosted glass doors of the circuit court clerk's office. Miller trailed two steps behind, his hand resting casually inside his coat near his holster, watching the elevator banks at the end of the hall.

They had beaten the injunction by twelve minutes.

Inside the clerk’s office, the air smelled of stale coffee, old paper, and bureaucratic indifference. A middle-aged clerk with a stack of green filing folders looked up lazily as Dante dropped a thick, blue-backed federal complaint onto the wooden counter.

"What's this?" the clerk asked, chewing on the end of a plastic pen.

"RICO counter-filing," Dante said, his voice slicing through the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights. "Docket number eight-eight dash four zero two. Cross-referenced with the Canal Street property acquisition records."

The clerk’s eyes dropped to the top page, scanning the names typed in bold capitals: MORETTI, SALVATORE; COLE, RAYMOND; VANCE, WILLEM.

The clerk’s pen stopped chewing. He looked up slowly, his expression shifting from bored indifference to absolute panic. "Mister Moretti... I can't accept this without authorization from the chief administrative judge. This names half the municipal—"

"You'll accept it, stamp it, and enter it into the electronic docket right now," a smooth, cultured voice interrupted from the doorway.

Everyone turned.

Willem Vance stood in the entrance of the clerk's office, flanked by two private security guards in dark suits. The lawyer’s silver hair was combed back with military precision, and his silver tie caught the fluorescent glare. He didn't look like a man whose firm had just been raided; he looked like a predator who had finally cornered its prey in a narrow alley.

"The federal court already dismissed the preliminary injunction regarding the Whitaker estate an hour ago, Dante," Vance said, stepping smoothly into the office. "Your father sends his regards. He also notes that your wife’s arrest warrant was just signed by Judge Henderson."

Elena didn't flinch. She stepped in front of the counter, facing the lawyer directly.

"Judge Henderson’s son was appointed to the zoning board last month by Raymond Cole," Elena said, her voice ringing clear and cold across the small room. "Everyone in this building knows whose pocket he's in, Willem."

Vance smiled thinly. "My dear Elena, perception is a matter of legal documentation. And right now, the documents say you're a fugitive from a financial embezzlement charge."

He reached into his leather briefcase, pulled out a folded white paper, and held it out.

"You can come quietly with these gentlemen," Vance said, gesturing to the two security guards behind him, "or we can have the sheriff’s department escort you out through the main lobby in front of the morning press corps."

Miller’s hand shifted inside his coat. Dante’s jaw tightened, his grey eyes locking onto Vance with a fury so cold it felt like zero degrees.

Before Dante could step forward, the elevator bell down the hall dinged.

Heavy, hurried footsteps echoed across the terrazzo floor.

"Hold it right there!" a sharp voice commanded.

Three federal marshals in dark tactical vests came around the corner, their badges gleaming under the lights. Leading them wasn't a local cop or a municipal judge—it was the federal prosecutor from the Dirksen building, holding an open leather folder.

Vance’s smile faltered for the first time. He turned his head toward the marshals. "Gentlemen, this is a civil matter—"

"Mr. Vance," the federal prosecutor interrupted, stepping past the lawyer without a glance and stopping directly in front of the counter. "You are hereby served with a federal grand jury subpoena regarding your role in the 1988 Canal Street property cover-up and the obstruction of municipal justice."

The clerk in the office stared open-mouthed, his pen dropping onto the counter with a plastic clatter.

Vance’s face went the color of skim milk. He looked from the federal prosecutor to Dante, his corporate composure finally cracking at the edges. "You don't have jurisdiction over municipal land titles—"

"We have jurisdiction over federal mail fraud, interstate bank transfers, and racketeering," the prosecutor said crisply, nodding to the marshals. "Take him."

As the marshals stepped forward and placed their hands on Willem Vance’s shoulders, guiding him backward out of the office, Vance locked eyes with Dante one last time.

"Your father won't let this stand, Dante," Vance hissed through teeth clenched so tight they looked ready to shatter. "He owns the docks, he owns the union, and by tomorrow morning, he’ll own the entire West Side."