"Now—immediately—send your men out there! If Chicago is still this chaotic by tomorrow morning, I swear I'll send you straight to God!"
Mayor Martin Kennelly roared, his threats aimed squarely at Chicago Police Chief Fister.
"Sir, I can't do that. You can give the order directly if you wish—I'd rather die in this office," Fister replied.
He knew such words would ignite Kennelly's fury, but he had no choice. Tonight's riots were not ordinary.
It wasn't that he underestimated Chicago's homegrown gangs; even the Mafia alone couldn't cause such havoc.
This was clearly the work of an outside power—and not a small one.
As Chicago's police chief, Fister had no authority over external forces. If they refused to relent, all his efforts would be meaningless.
Just as he expected, Kennelly flew into a rage. Another ten minutes of curses—each sentence packed with "fuck"—finally gave way to a calmer tone.
From the weight of Fister's silence, Kennelly realized the man was truly powerless here. Though he had many economic advisors under him, when it came to security, only Fister could offer useful counsel.
"Fine. Let's forget what was just said. Start over. Fister, give me some advice—what should I do?"
Fister exhaled deeply. The mayor's tirades were brutal storms to weather, but he had endured once again.
"Sir, the best option is for you to identify the mastermind behind this underground war and persuade them to stand down. Without the Mafia and the other gangs backing the chaos, I can handle the rest with ease," Fister said.
"Fister, I can't fix that overnight. I've already called the governor—Mr. Stevenson himself admits he doesn't know who's behind this in Chicago."
Kennelly sighed and pressed further.
"So then, Fister, what other options do we have?"
A flicker of panic crossed Fister's heart. If even the governor was blind to the puppeteers, then the forces at play were on a level far beyond his reach.
In Chicago, he might be a figure of authority, but on America's grand stage, he was no more than an ant to be crushed without a thought.
Having worked with him for years, Kennelly understood his hesitation. The mayor quickly assured him:
"I know what you're worried about, Fister. Don't. I won't say the idea came from you."
Kennelly often broke promises, but in this case Fister knew the meaning: If you don't speak, I really will send you to God.
"Mr. Mayor, there's only one option left: ask the governor to deploy the National Guard."
Kennelly froze, then asked reflexively:
"Has it really come to that?"
"Yes, sir. You may not fully realize—these men are already using military-grade rifles and restricted grenades. Their firepower is three to five times that of our officers.
And they've lost all restraint. They're endangering not only Chicago but the entire state of Illinois. Only the National Guard can quickly stabilize the city," Fister replied.
Kennelly sneered:
"Fister, you came out of the National Guard. Don't tell me you don't know their worth. Are you sure they'll do better than the current mess if I let them into Chicago?"
"I'm certain. At worst, they loot and smash things—but they don't kill, nor dare approach the big factories. The damage would be far less than this gang war.
Besides, who knows how long this war will drag on? Every day it stalls, it's choking the city's economy, strangling the bosses' businesses."
Fister had struck right at Kennelly's weak spot. The moment he heard "the bosses' interests," the mayor answered briskly:
"I'll call the governor right now."
Springfield, the capital of Illinois.
Governor Adlai Stevenson hung up with the National Guard officers. He had agreed to Kennelly's request—not only because Chicago was the beating economic heart of Illinois, where many of his financial backers thrived.
What truly stoked his resolve was a sense of insult. Two factions had chosen his turf to brawl, without even so much as notifying the "landlord."
And they dared to do it so openly.
Stevenson's face was like stone as he awaited updates. A National Guard unit was already stationed near Chicago. With his authorization, they were speeding toward the city.
Deep night.
Convoy after convoy of trucks roared along the highway, carrying a thousand National Guard soldiers. Dragged from their bunks at midnight, the men should've been grumpy, yet their faces shone with excitement.
They were the Guard unit closest to Chicago. For ages, they had longed to march into the city, yet never had the chance. Now, fortune beckoned. To them, this was an opportunity to get rich.
As for the gangs? Laughable. Gangsters scattered at the first show of force—what threat could they be to trained troops?
Suddenly, the long convoy screeched to a halt.
In his Willys jeep, Commander Cruz of the National Guard jolted awake at the abrupt stop.
"What the hell are you stopping for?!" he barked.
"T-tank, sir!" the driver stammered.
"Damn it, you've seen tanks before! We've got some at our base too!" Cruz snapped—then stopped dead.
Because ahead, blocking the road, stood four tanks. Not the rusted relics at his base, but far more modern beasts. Their barrels were leveled directly at his convoy.
Cruz's voice quivered despite himself.
"Wh-what the hell is going on?!"
The answer arrived swiftly. Flanked by two soldiers, a sunglass-wearing officer strode forward. He wrenched open the jeep's window and said coolly:
"This sector is under live military exercises. No passage permitted."
Cruz forced down his fear, speaking with shaky authority:
"Chicago is in riots. By the governor's order, we are to restore order. Let us through—we'll be quick."
The officer sneered.
"Apologies. This is a military exercise. Without authorization from the Pentagon, no one enters. You have ten minutes—turn back, or we open fire."
He turned and walked away.
Cruz swallowed hard, wiped sweat from his brow, and muttered to his driver:
"Turn us around."
"Sir… we're not going to Chicago?" the driver asked.
"How the hell are we supposed to?!" Cruz snapped.
"We could take another route," offered his adjutant from the passenger seat.
The fool didn't understand. Cruz did. This sudden "exercise" was no accident. It was clearly meant to block the Guard. No matter which road they tried, more tanks would be waiting.
"Did you not hear me? Turn back!" Cruz barked.
"Sir, the men won't be happy. They all want a piece of the Chicago spoils," the adjutant said hesitantly.
"Turn back—or stay here and die! See if the Army dares to shell you like the bandits you are."
"We're the National Guard," the adjutant protested.
Were it not for the fact this idiot was his brother-in-law, Cruz would've shot him himself.
"You fool. I am the National Guard!" he roared.
Then he kicked the driver's seat.
"Turn back—return to base!"
Springfield.
Governor Stevenson was roused from bed by his secretary. When he learned the Guard had turned back after "encountering exercises," his face darkened instantly.
The Army had moved. Who had the clout to order that?
As one of the top players in American politics, Stevenson's intelligence network was vast. His mind leapt to the two factions in Washington who could sway the military: the Middle Eastern hawks and the Far Eastern hawks.
With the Far Eastern war unfolding, it was clear that camp had seized the advantage. Stevenson had thought he could stay neutral, watching from the East. But he never imagined their first open clash would happen on his turf.
Breathing deep to steady his anger, Stevenson grabbed the phone and dialed his old friend Thomas Morton.
The line connected. Before Morton could speak, Stevenson barked:
"Thomas, you've gone too far!"
Dragged from sleep and spoken to so rudely, Morton—the Senate Majority Leader and true titan of the Democratic Party—hung up without hesitation.
Stevenson realized at once he had blundered. Morton was no longer a man to trifle with. As Senate leader, he was the de facto head of the party. Presidents without financial backers meant nothing now.
Desperate, Stevenson redialed—seven times. At last, on the eighth try, Morton answered. His voice was low, grave:
"You'd better choose your words carefully."
"I apologize, Thomas. But I need an explanation. Why Chicago?"
"You've called the wrong man. Ask our enemies why they chose Chicago. With your power in Illinois, it shouldn't be hard to find out," Morton said.
"It's just one dead Mafia boss, isn't it? Gangsters grow back like weeds. Don't tell me your Italian son-in-law can't handle even that?" Stevenson sneered.
"No, no. This isn't about one boss. This is about all the godfathers. In a single day, two attempts were made on the former godfather's life. Even without Leo, Chicago was doomed to face the wrath of America's greatest underworld empire.
This is war."
"So you moved the Army? Blocked the Guard? You were a governor yourself, Thomas—you're breaking the rules!" Stevenson shot back.
His words gave Morton pause. Disbelief tinged his voice:
"The Army?"
"Yes—the Army," Stevenson confirmed grimly.
A sharp intake of breath sounded over the line.
"Stevenson… Leo is angry. Truly angry. And if that's the case, our Democratic Party may be in deep trouble."
"Why? Valentino doesn't back Truman. But we still have you, don't we?" Stevenson asked.
"Idiot! Tell me—who are the two men with the greatest sway over the U.S. Army?" Morton demanded.
"General Eisenhower and General MacArthur," Stevenson answered automatically—then froze. His voice dropped:
"MacArthur would never side with Valentino… but Eisenhower—wait, didn't he just join the Republicans?"
"Exactly," Morton said flatly.
"Damn it! Where's Leo now? You should rein him in! He's our creation, supported by the Democrats!" Stevenson shouted.
"You think I can restrain Leo at this point? I can't even reach him. All I know is he just flew from New York to Chicago.
It's on you now, Stevenson. At least find out what Leo intends. The Party needs a plan."
The line went dead.
Stevenson wasted no time. He ordered his secretary to ready the car—he would head to Chicago at once.
Meanwhile, in Chicago, Joe Accardo and Caracci met again at their late boss's estate, reporting to Corondo.
"Chicago is ours now. The Irish are nearly wiped out. But the assassin of Old Man Dougal still eludes us," Accardo said.
"I've found his family though. We can make them pay first," the younger Caracci suggested eagerly.
The youth was hungry for rank—bolder, less restrained than the old guard like Accardo.
"You're breaking Sicilian tradition," Accardo warned.
"I haven't killed them. I'm waiting for Mr. Corondo's word," Caracci replied smartly.
Before they could argue further, Corondo raised his hand.
"No need for my word. Someone's arrived from Las Vegas. Listen to him instead."
"From Las Vegas?" Accardo and Caracci exchanged puzzled glances. Neither had heard of this.
Then they watched as a figure emerged from the villa. He had just finished paying respects to Paul Ricca's family.
It was none other than the Godfather of the American Mafia—Michael Corleone.