Chapter 13: The Turmoil of Chicago (Prologue)

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Al Capone tore off the note stuck at the top of the liquor crate, his expression darkening.

“Don’t let those little bugs from the Southside bootleggers tailing me ruin my mood!”

A simple sentence, yet the information contained within caused Al Capone to furrow his brow deeply.

Ralph Capone, who arrived shortly after, saw the message and was shocked. “Johnny found out you’re the Chosen One?”

Al Capone rolled his eyes and replied helplessly, “If I don’t say it and you don’t say it, how would he know? Does the Elder come running to notify him directly?”

“Oh, right.” Ralph scratched his head. “Then why did he send people to follow the Elder?”

Al Capone had already pieced together the situation and spoke in a low voice, “He probably doesn’t know the Elder is the one delivering the liquor. He must have sent people to watch this side early on. The tailing is to find out where the liquor is coming from.”

The Southside distillery, also known as the Western Distillery, became the largest bootlegging operation absorbed by the Mafia after Prohibition was enforced. Ostensibly, it produced legal industrial alcohol.

Of course, this was merely a cover for producing and distributing illicit liquor.

Holding the Western Distillery in his grasp, Johnny Torrio, the current Chicago Mafia boss, divided territories among his men and strictly mandated that only liquor from the bootleg distillery be sold.

He even planned to extend this rule throughout Chicago’s underground gangs.

But after witnessing the “Dark Force,” Al Capone knew that was wishful thinking.

So, he decisively resold the inferior liquor from the bootleg distillery to other gangs, only selling the high-quality Canadian whiskey supplied by the Elder himself.

In other words, he was openly breaking Johnny Torrio’s rule.

Ralph Capone paced anxiously. “What do we do now?”

“Wasn’t this expected?” Al Capone looked up at Ralph. “Are you scared?”

“It was discovered too early.” Ralph’s voice tightened. “After all, he is the boss.”

Though Al Capone was nominally second-in-command, this was only due to his efforts in expanding the liquor business after Prohibition, with real power still firmly in Johnny’s hands.

“Can we ask the Elder for help...?” Ralph suddenly had a bright idea.

With the Elder’s unpredictable power, dealing with Johnny Torrio would be a mere flick of the hand, right?

“Impossible!” Al Capone shook his head.

After experiencing the Elder’s reprimand when trying to use him to seize the favor of the Dark Force through the newspaper business, Al Capone knew one thing: he must never expect the Elder to do anything on his behalf.

The note left by the Elder made his attitude clear.

Al Capone seemed to see the Elder standing before him, emotionless, saying, “Mind your own business! Don’t cause trouble for the Dark Force.”

And Al Capone, convinced he was the “Chosen One,” was far less wary of Johnny than Ralph, even dismissing him entirely.

“Ralph, you go find some reliable gunmen,” Al Capone said, the scar on his face twisting into a fierce shape under the dim light.

“What?” Ralph suddenly looked up, pupils contracting sharply.

So direct and brutal?

“Johnny’s not easy to kill,” Ralph said hurriedly. “You know the protection he has.”

Of course, Al Capone knew.

After all, Jim Colosimo, the former Chicago Mafia boss, was killed by Johnny’s gunmen because he refused to sell bootleg liquor.

Once in power, Al Capone naturally guarded against the same fate.

Even when eating or sleeping, Johnny’s bodyguards never numbered fewer than two.

“Going after Johnny?” Al Capone chuckled shortly. “Who said we’re going straight for him?”

“I want you to eliminate Frankie, Tony, Vincent... every one of them, no exceptions!”

“Be quick!”

Ralph swallowed hard. “You really want to take out all these brothers?”

“They’re Johnny’s loyalists. If you don’t get rid of them, they’ll get rid of you sooner or later.” Al Capone’s eyes shone cold and sharp.

He understood better than Ralph that the path to power was paved with betrayal and blood.

Once embarking on the journey of the “Chosen One,” his heart was filled only with cold calculation, his eyes fixed on the blood-stained crown at the end of the underworld.

What needed to be done now was to take advantage of Johnny Torrio’s current state—only trying to find out about the liquor channels and still unguarded—to pull out his teeth and break his claws.

Johnny’s authority wasn’t tied to him alone but firmly rooted in his devoted henchmen.

Al Capone was once one of them; now he was about to stab them in the back.

“Also, send people to infiltrate and burn down the Western Distillery! Any other small distilleries—burn them all to the ground!” Al Capone’s voice was like a chain soaked in poison, each link tightening.

Ralph gasped, a chill piercing to his bones.

He began to understand his brother’s plan—to cripple Johnny by cutting off his claws and to destroy his foundation, leaving him incapable of a counterattack.

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By then, Johnny would have no supply of cheap liquor, while Al Capone, unaffected thanks to the Dark Elder, would have the scales of victory tipping in his favor.

At that moment, Ralph realized why his brother was truly the “Chosen One.”

Clear in purpose and ruthless in execution.

His only concern was, “Won’t this cause too much of a stir?”

Al Capone’s gaze was steady. “If it doesn’t stir things up, how could it cause chaos?”

“Without chaos, how do you climb to the top?”

...

The storm was coming. Meanwhile, what was Logan doing?

Eating skewers.

“I’m telling you, this barbecue joint’s skills were considered top-notch even by your old man when he was alive!”

One afternoon, after yet another rant about American food, Richard took Logan to this barbecue restaurant.

Owned by Mexicans, naturally.

Logan often complained about America for good reason.

Without immigrants from other countries, America, whose flag originated from Britain’s unimaginative culinary traditions, would be unimaginable as a place to live.

Richard had obviously heard enough of Logan’s cheap shots at his father. “They say his homeland has at least ten thousand recipes—a lifetime wouldn’t be enough to try them all. It’s terrifying.”

Logan sighed wistfully. He really missed it.

Unfortunately, he was hopeless in the kitchen—only good at eating, not cooking.

As for his current homeland... sigh.

Glazed chunks of meat, brushed with shining honey, rotated over the flames, the dripping fat sizzling.

Richard skillfully turned the grill, constantly basting with oil and honey, slicing off cooked meat with a blade, sprinkling salt—no sauce needed, it was mouthwatering.

Richard insisted on the restaurant’s secret sauce. “This is the owner’s secret recipe. No one can resist its charm!”

Logan obediently slathered the fragrant meat with the special sauce and stuffed it into his mouth.

“Mmm... tastes amazing!”

Indeed, it was the best food Logan had tasted since crossing over.

“Mexicans really know their cooking,” Logan mumbled in praise. “I wonder what the Chinatown in Chicago is like. Can they make those ten thousand dishes my dad talked about?”

Richard’s cheeks puffed as he shook his head skeptically.

“Your dad’s been there a few times. It’s not safe. Actually, his homeland is even less safe—far less safe than Chicago...”

Before he finished, “Bang!”

Not the pop of grease from the grill, but the sharp, tearing roar of gunfire!

Two figures clad in dark masks, eyes like beasts, kicked open the wooden door of the barbecue joint, wielding Thompson submachine guns. The dark barrels spat flames, aiming directly at a solitary Mediterranean man dining at the next table.

In a flash, the Mediterranean man roared, his thick arms hoisting the heavy oak table, along with greasy plates, lemon juice, and sizzling ribs, turning it into a wooden shield.

Simultaneously, his right hand whipped into his waist and drew a black Colt pistol to fire back.

At the exact moment of the first shot, Logan reacted.

He instinctively lifted the heavy wooden table, letting the flying dishes and skewers crash down behind Richard.

At the same time, he grabbed Richard’s collar and yanked him down forcefully. Richard, stunned and with his mouth full of meat, was dragged low and nearly fell sideways behind the overturned table.

The whole sequence was fluid and heartbreakingly practiced.

“Pop pop pop!” Stray bullets struck the tabletop, splinters flying. Richard’s eyes went wide, nearly terrified out of his mind.

Bullets hit the steaming metal grill, sparking bursts of flame. The chandelier shattered under gunfire, fragments raining like hail... the barbecue joint turned into a hellscape.

Customers scattered like frightened cockroaches—some instinctively fled with hands over their heads, others collapsed, and some were tragically hit by stray bullets, twitching helplessly in pools of blood.

“Chi ti ha mandato?! Rispondi! Bastardo!” (“Who sent you?! Answer me! Bastard!”)

The Mediterranean man shouted furiously, firing his pistol to suppress the attackers.

But a pistol couldn’t match submachine guns. While he reloaded, the two gunmen split angles, unleashing crossfire like Death’s scythe, relentlessly slicing the area where he took cover.

“Pop pop pop...”

A few dull thuds. The Mediterranean man’s muscular body jerked as bullets pierced his chest, abdomen, and thigh.

He gasped twice, his massive frame collapsing heavily to the floor with a muffled thud.

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The gunfire abruptly ceased.

No one spoke—only the wounded’s intermittent groans, suppressed sobbing from customers curled under tables, and the sizzling of fat dripping onto hot coals.

Logan cautiously peeked out from cover, scanning the Mediterranean man’s twitching body, the winding bloodstains on the floor, and the empty doorway—the gunmen had vanished without a trace.

“Get up, Richard,” Logan said with an odd calm, pulling him up. “Are you okay?”

Richard shook his head in a daze, still chewing the meat he forgot to swallow.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Seeing the surviving patrons gradually coming to, and crowds gathering outside, Logan hurriedly dragged Richard away from the barbecue joint.

“Damn, damn... shit! Shit!”

Only now did Richard fully react, spitting out the meat and cursing in panic.

Who would have thought—just eating barbecue nearly turned into minced meat.

Logan quickened his pace.

“We need to report this to the newsroom. If we’re fast, the journalists can get photos before the police arrive. This is big news!”

Richard, still shaken to the point of almost bursting veins in his hands, stared blankly.

Why are you thinking about news now? We almost died!

“I know, I know. But we survived by luck, right? We can’t just be scared for nothing.” Logan reassured him.

Having died once in a similar situation, Logan remained composed—at least this time no one used him as a human shield, and he didn’t let Richard be one either.

“...”

Richard thought, you’re truly a rare breed!

Recalling Logan’s lightning-fast self-defense moves immediately after the gunfire, even though it saved them, Richard still thought he was an extraordinary oddball.

What kind of severe paranoia does it take to be so well-prepared and so calm?

But Logan’s casual demeanor helped calm Richard somewhat.

Replaying the harrowing scene in his mind, Richard suddenly said, “Did you hear what the guy who got killed shouted? It was Italian.”

“Yeah.”

“I think I remember—he was Mafia.” He paused. “Could it have been Donald’s doing?”

Immediately after, Richard dismissed that possibility. “No, it can’t be. Donald just made a deal with the Italians about territory borders. It’s impossible.”

An image of Al Capone flashed in Logan’s mind.

If it was really Al Capone behind this, he was truly ruthless.

Logan didn’t voice his suspicion but patted Richard’s shoulder.

“No matter who did it, one thing’s certain.”

“What?”

“We need to carry guns with us!”

Richard sighed and suddenly remarked, “Feels like the world’s about to go crazy!”

Whether it would or not was unknown, but after this incident, Logan no longer had illusions about America’s safety.

What does “everyone must carry a gun to keep order” mean?

You pull a gun on me, I pull mine and shoot you dead. Naturally, chaos can’t thrive.

[I need to stockpile guns! At least a hundred in my storage bag!]

[Americans definitely need this greeting!]

Then, Logan’s steps halted.

[New Role (Mechanic): Armed Freedom America! You are a mechanic. Go deliver typewriters of freedom to the security-starved Americans in Chicago.]

As if sensing Logan’s intense resentment, the system suddenly popped up a new role prompt.

Richard looked at Logan curiously, “What’s wrong?”

Logan smiled like a warmonger, savoring the thought, “The world is definitely going to get crazy!”

“?”

...