Chapter 6 - The Flames of Pilsen
The night sky over Pilsen burned a violent, toxic orange.
By the time my convoy reached the narrow residential street, three fire engines were parked with their sirens wailing, pouring jets of water into the crumbling brick facade of the three-story apartment building. Smoke filled the cold air, smelling of burnt wood, cheap insulation, and gasoline.
I stepped out of my sedan, wrapped in a heavy black overcoat. Marcus walked right beside me, holding a tactical flashlight.
A crowd of displaced residents stood on the icy sidewalk, wrapped in aluminum emergency blankets, weeping as they watched their few belongings turn to ash.
"Where was the fire set?" I demanded as Marcus led me toward the alleyway behind the building.
"Basement unit," Marcus said, pointing his flashlight at a scorched window well near the foundation. "Accelerant was poured directly through the window screen. Classic arson. They wanted to make sure whatever papers June had left behind were completely destroyed."
A detective from the Chicago Police Department’s arson unit walked over to us, holding a clipboard.
"Mr. Blackwell?" the detective asked, recognizing me immediately. "What's the owner of Blackwell Enterprises doing at a tenement fire in Pilsen?"
"I own this building, Detective," I lied without hesitation. "I purchased the deed through a subsidiary three weeks ago. Did your men find anything near the point of origin?"
The detective sighed, pulling a plastic evidence bag from his coat pocket. Inside was a melted piece of plastic—the scorched remains of a heavy-duty industrial fuel canister.
"Professional job," the detective noted. "They used commercial-grade thermite paste to ensure the floorboards ignited instantly. Luckily, the building's superintendent smelled the fumes and pulled the fire alarm before anyone was trapped inside."
Marcus leaned in close to my ear. "Commercial-grade thermite is only distributed through three industrial supply hubs in Cook County. All three are sub-contracted under Blackwell Property Maintenance."
Dominic Vance’s division.
A cold, lethal stillness settled over me. Dominic wasn't just trying to cover his financial tracks anymore. He was willing to burn poor families out of their homes in the middle of a Chicago winter just to destroy a paper notebook.
"Detective," I said, looking the officer in the eye. "Every person standing on that sidewalk lost their home tonight. I want you to arrange for three charter buses to transport them to the Blackwell Hotel on Michigan Avenue immediately."
The detective blinked, startled. "The Blackwell Hotel? That's a five-star property—"
"They will stay in my hotel rooms, eat in my restaurants, and receive full wardrobe replacements at my expense for as long as it takes to rebuild this property," I ordered. "Send the invoice directly to my private office."
"Yes, sir," the detective said, visibly stunned by the gesture.
I turned back toward my car, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth hurt.
"Marcus," I said as we got into the backseat.
"Sir?"
"Call our legal team. Instruct them to file an emergency petition with the State’s Attorney for an immediate arrest warrant for Dominic Vance on charges of corporate fraud, grand larceny, and attempted aggravated arson."
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"And what about Silas?" Marcus asked, starting the engine.
"Silas thinks he can leverage his board votes to force a buyout of my company," I said, staring out the window at the dying embers of the Pilsen fire. "Tell our investment bankers to initiate a hostile takeover of Vance Holdings at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I want every asset, every account, and every property owned by the Vance family liquidated by Friday."
