Don't Mess With the Don

Someone @'d me on the hotel's internal guest service system. "Hey, penthouse guy. You're alone. What do you need a whole infinity pool for? My wife's hosting a livestream event. We'll be needing it starting tomorrow." "Don't worry, we'll give you three grand a month. It's a sweet deal. You should be thrilled." I stared at the screen. This was a joke. I was Don Alessandro Ricci. The ruler of Chicago's entire underworld. I checked into my family's flagship hotel under the radar to keep a low profile—needed some peace to close a critical overseas deal and take a few days off. That pool was the penthouse's exclusive amenity. The crown jewel of this hotel. And now someone thought they could take it for three grand? I shot back two words: "Dream on." I didn't expect the hotel manager and two security guards at my suite door the next day. Someone had filed a complaint about me "misusing hotel public resources." And now, for the sake of "guest harmony," they were demanding my keycard. Fine. You want to bring it on yourself? I'll play. Chapter 1 I hid my identity as a Mafia Don to get a few days of peace and close a major deal. I never thought my neighbor in the next suite would be the one to pick a fight he can't win. I'd just wrapped up an encrypted call with Milan when my phone started blowing up. On the hotel's internal VIP guest system, a guy named Carl @'d me. "Hey, penthouse guy. You're alone. What do you need a whole infinity pool for? My wife's doing a luxury brand livestream event. We'll be needing it starting tomorrow." "Don't worry, we'll give you three grand a month as a 'venue fee.' You do jack shit and pocket the cash. You should be thrilled." I stared at the screen. This was a joke. Three grand? I paid more than that every single day just to keep the security team that guaranteed this suite's privacy. And this stay? I was here to close a deal poolside—a negotiation that would reshape my family's entire financial empire. I shot back two words: "Dream on." Less than ten minutes later, Carl was back. "Ooh, feisty, are we?" He dropped a taunting emoji. "Three grand not good enough? Name your price, then. It's a waste sitting there anyway." "What's a single guy gonna do with it? Take a few thirst traps for Instagram? Post and ghost?" My thumb hovered over the screen. I took a deep breath, pushing down the instincts my family drilled into me. I tried to handle it like a normal person. "First, it's the penthouse's exclusive amenity—written into the room rate. Second, you can't afford what I'd charge. And third, I'm using it. I have private meetings." Carl exploded. He dropped a voice note, his voice shrill and grating. "Can't afford? Give me a break! You stay in a hotel like this, you follow the guest rules! My wife Pamela is the founder of the Pamela Beauty Empire! You have any idea how much traffic and exposure she brings this place? And you? Who the hell are you?" "She just wants to use your pool for one brand event, give back to her followers, and you're being this selfish?" "I really wonder how a young guy like you can afford the penthouse suite anyway. Renting it by the hour? Gotta be. You don't look like any real trust fund kid. That whole outfit you're wearing—rented too, right? Just for the photoshoot?" I gripped my phone. Ice flooded my veins. Just as I was about to fire back, the hotel manager, Marcus Morrison, chimed in. "Mr. Ricci, I think Mr. Stalin has a point." His profile picture had a "Hotel Manager" certification badge underneath. "As members of our VIP club, we should all contribute to the overall atmosphere and guest harmony." "Besides, you can't possibly use such a large pool all by yourself. And... frankly, a young gentleman like you, occupying an entire penthouse suite alone—other long-term VIP guests are starting to talk." "Talk about what?" "About how young people these days like to put on airs. Rent a suite for two days, take some photos, and act like they're somebody. To avoid unnecessary gossip, I'd suggest you keep a lower profile. Cooperating with Carl's request would do wonders for your image. People would think you're generous, a team player. Not... that lone wolf type who only cares about looking cool." I looked at the screen and saw it all clearly. This wasn't a negotiation. This was a shakedown. A pathetic loser living off his wife's influencer clout, and a spineless ass-kissing manager, helping him shake me down. Carl posted again: "See? Even management is on our side! Marcus, could you send housekeeping to redecorate the pool area tomorrow? I want a French garden-themed livestream set." "Of course, Mr. Stalin," Marcus replied instantly. "Anything for the vibrant atmosphere of our hotel." I took a deep breath and tossed my tablet onto the couch. I didn't want trouble. The deal with the Milan family's banking house was signing in Zurich on Monday—it was a critical time. But that didn't mean I was going to hand over my slice of peace to this kind of trash. Chapter 2 The next afternoon, I was sitting in the outdoor lounge area by the pool, reviewing the final transfer routes on my encrypted tablet. The Milan deal was in its final stretch—everything had to be perfect. The doorbell rang. Again and again. Frantic, like it was trying to wake the dead. I set down the tablet, walked to the door, and looked through the peephole. Marcus, with two uniformed security guards behind him. This didn't look good. I opened the door. Marcus practically shoved his way inside. His eyes raked over the suite's furnishings—that greedy, calculating look making my skin crawl. "Mr. Ricci," he cleared his throat, pulling a document from his briefcase. "On behalf of hotel management, I'm officially informing you that, per the latest revised VIP guest terms, no single guest has the right to monopolize the penthouse's outdoor facilities." "Common area?" I took the paper and glanced at it. "My booking confirmation explicitly lists the pool and terrace as part of the suite's exclusive square footage." "Hotel management bylaws can override your personal booking terms," Marcus sneered. "The pool area has now been re-designated as a flexible common social space. For the hotel's overall benefit and event coordination, we require you to hand over the pool area's access card immediately." I just stared at him. "On what grounds did you 're-designate' my private usage area?" "On the grounds of an emergency management meeting held last night." He waved the document proudly. "Long-term VIP guest Mr. Stalin and his wife Pamela pushed it through. All the paperwork's in order. Tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Stalin will be hosting a livestream by the pool." I finally got it. This was a planned mugging. Carl was flashing his wife's influencer clout. He and this slimy manager were abusing management authority, cooking up a resolution to steal my negotiation space. "I'm not handing over any access card," I said calmly. "That 'resolution' has no legal standing. If you have a problem, have your lawyer contact mine." Marcus's face changed. "Mr. Ricci, I suggest you cooperate." His voice was low and threatening now. "Management's decision is the hotel's will. And Mrs. Stalin has connections all over this city's business circles—from the Chamber of Commerce to the media. That's not something a man on his own can fight." The two guards behind him took a step forward. A clear threat. "And frankly, a young guy like you, occupying an entire suite alone... other long-term VIP guests are watching," Marcus continued. "People are already talking behind your back—saying things like, where does this kid get off putting on such airs? Renting a penthouse for a couple days to play big shot and acting like he's someone important." "To avoid unnecessary gossip, I'd suggest you keep a lower profile. Don't give other guests the impression that you're too... flashy. It won't do your reputation any favors in the long run, you know what I mean?" Was he implying I was a fraud? A poser renting above my means? "What are you trying to say?" "Nothing specific," he said with a shrug. "Just that young people should learn to fit in, not butt heads with distinguished guests. Some people rent a suite for two days and forget who they are. That's not coming from me—it's what other guests are saying. I'm just looking out for you." I clenched my jaw, fighting the urge to shut him up permanently. I was running a legitimate financial operation. I couldn't get my hands dirty over this garbage. "In any case, you will hand over the pool access today," Marcus said, dropping the friendly act entirely. "If you refuse to cooperate, we will have to take action." "Action?" "For instance, we could replace the electronic lock to the pool area, citing a security risk," he smiled, an ugly, triumphant thing. "All for hotel safety, of course. Completely within regulations." One of the guards took out his radio. The other tapped a tool pouch at his belt. The message was clear. I gave the three of them a long, hard look. Marcus was still gloating. "Mr. Ricci, I know you feel wronged, but influential people get priority. That's just business. Mrs. Stalin brings so much exposure to this hotel. Borrowing your pool is a small price to pay. And honestly, a man alone with a pool that size—it just looks wasteful to everyone else. Why not do someone a favor? Make some friends for the future." "If you continue to be uncooperative..." Marcus checked his watch. "We are authorized to change the pool area's access permissions." The two guards behind him took another step forward, their presence filling my doorway. I watched the three men threatening me in my own suite, and a cold smile touched my lips. "Fine," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerously low calm. I looked him dead in the eye. "Go ahead. Change that lock. But you'd better be damn sure you can handle what comes next." I slammed the door in their faces. Chapter 3 The second the door was closed, I grabbed my phone. I had to see what they'd do next. I opened the VIP instant messaging system. My gut was right. Carl had already posted a long message in the guest group, complete with several photos of the skyline view from my pool—shot at a weird angle, clearly taken without my knowledge. "Great news, everyone! Through Pamela's and my efforts, we have successfully secured the use of the penthouse pool area for the hotel!" "Tomorrow at 2 PM, Pamela will be hosting her 'Golden Summer' brand livestream by the pool, giving back to all our fans and hotel VIPs!" "A huge thank you to Manager Morrison for his support, and to all the management team for their cooperation!" Dozens of comments had already flooded in. "Wow, Carl, you're amazing!" "Mrs. Stalin is such a business genius!" "I've always wanted to see that infinity pool! Finally got a chance!" "Carl, how did you convince the penthouse guy to agree? I thought he said no?" My fingers trembled as I scrolled down and saw Carl's reply. "Some people just don't get community spirit. Think they're above everyone else. But when faced with real influence and capital, they have no choice but to play along. Besides, those types who rent a suite just to take photos and look rich? No point reasoning with them. You just do what needs to be done." I was still trying to be civil. To use the system. I replied directly: "On what grounds are you seizing private facilities that I paid an eight-figure room rate for?" Less than ten seconds later, Carl replied with a voice note. I pressed play. His sharp, grating voice filled the room. "Oh, you still dare to show your face? Eight figures? Where does a kid like you get that kind of money? Rent a suite for a day, shoot a few short videos, and suddenly you think you're some CEO? That suit you're wearing looks cheap as hell!" "You watch your mouth. My wife isn't just an influencer. She knows people. Media people. One word from her, and you won't just disappear from this hotel. You'll disappear from the entire social circle. Period. You think putting on a suit for two days gets you into this world? Dream on." I gripped my phone, my knuckles turning white. This vicious man wasn't just trying to steal my space, he was trying to destroy my reputation. Chicago business circles? The Ricci family is the shadow behind Chicago's business circles. And this clown thinks his wife's lipstick empire can threaten me? The group chat exploded. "Oh my god, is that true?" "I knew it. How else could a young guy afford the penthouse?" "These rent-a-suite posers are getting bolder and bolder." "No wonder he's so stuck-up. He's got something to hide. Probably maxed out his credit cards." I calmly screenshotted every single comment, saving the evidence. But I made myself a promise. When I took over as head of the family, I swore I'd do it the legitimate way—crush them with contracts and legal notices, not violence and fear. I replied directly to his post. "Carl, this is slander and conspiracy to commit misappropriation. Every post has been screenshotted. My lawyer will be in touch shortly." Carl shot back, more arrogant than ever: "A crime? Hahaha, that's hilarious! Go ahead, sue me! See if you can find a lawyer in Chicago who'd dare to take your case! A two-bit wannabe renting a suite to play rich—what kind of lawyer could you even afford?" Marcus jumped in too. "Mr. Ricci, please watch your tone. Management is acting on a hotel resolution. Everything is by the book and compliant. If you continue to post statements that disrupt hotel harmony, we will have to restrict your account. Also, I'd advise you to mind your behavior—don't leave other distinguished guests with the impression that 'young people don't know their place.'" The rage in my chest was a wildfire. My restraint was a single thread, about to snap. I shut off my phone and leaned back on the couch, closing my eyes. My eighty-thousand-a-night suite pool—stolen. My booking confirmation—dismissed as worthless paper. My reputation—slandered as a wannabe renting above his means. Management and the hotel, working together to rob me blind. Fine. Just fine. I stood up, took photos of the booking contract and payment records, encrypted them, and sent them to my private lawyer in New York. Just after I hit send, the side door access light flickered on. Someone was in the pool area? Who would be going in there this late? I pushed open the glass door to the pool terrace, and when I saw what was happening, my heart sank. Chapter 4 The electronic lock on my pool terrace had been forced open. The outdoor lounge area was a wreck. The encrypted documents, negotiation memos, transfer route drafts—everything I'd prepared for next week's signing in Zurich—were torn to shreds and soaked in the pool. Pulp floated on the surface like a white funeral. On the table, scrawled in lipstick: "FAKE RICH BOY GET OUT." I stood at the edge of the pool, shaking. Those files were the core of my family's financial strategy for the next three years—our only ticket into Europe through legitimate channels. Now they were gone. I called the front desk. "Penthouse suite. My lock was breached, property destroyed. Send someone up. Now." "Oh. Security's short-staffed. We'll get there in an hour." "An hour? My suite was broken into, business secrets destroyed—" "Relax, kid. A penthouse suite ain't cheap for a day. You should be taking photos instead of wasting time." He hung up. I waited nearly an hour before a security guard finally sauntered over. "Whoa. They really did a number on this place." "What's the hotel going to do about this?" He threw his hands up. "Not our problem. You're on your own. But honestly, if those files were that important, you wouldn't leave 'em by the pool, would you? Sounds like a setup for clout if you ask me." "I pay tens of thousands a night for this room, my suite was broken into—" He cut me off with a sigh. "Sir, we're security, not the FBI. You pissed someone off, you deal with it. Besides, a young guy like you in a suite this big? Who knows where those files even came from." A shrill laugh came from behind me. Carl. He pointed at the floating pulp and howled with laughter. "'Fake rich boy get out.' Hahaha! Guess I'm not the only one who thinks you're a fraud." "Did you do this?" "I didn't pick any locks. But... why would someone target you and nobody else? A young guy alone in a penthouse, strutting around like he owns the place, all 'I'm a big shot' attitude—everyone's sick of it. Word is you're just some influencer renting the suite for photo ops." I turned to the guard. "Security footage." His face tightened. "Camera on this floor's under maintenance. Not working." I stared into his eyes. "Under maintenance. What a coincidence." His eyes darted toward Carl. His voice suddenly turned bold. "Yeah, under maintenance. Nothing we can do." It all snapped into focus. They were in it together. Carl stepped closer, his eyes full of malice. "Everyone's guessing you're some rich woman's boy toy. Files destroyed? Maybe her husband finally caught on. Those papers were probably worthless anyway. Now there's room for my livestream. You play the poser, you pay the price." I pulled out my phone and hit record, pointing the camera at both of them. "Slander, breaking and entering, destruction of property. Expect to hear from my lawyer." I turned to the guard. "I pay you hundreds a night in service fees, and you tell me it's not your problem? You can expect to be named in the lawsuit too." Carl lunged, trying to snatch my phone. "Who the hell do you think you are?" The guard grabbed my arm, his grip like a vise, holding me in place. Carl's palm cracked across my face. "You little piece of shit! Rent a suite for two days and you think you're somebody? No one in Chicago's media circle messes with my wife! One word from her and you posers disappear for good!" My cheek burned. I could taste blood in my mouth. A lawyer? Too stupid. You can't reason with animals. I spit a bloody wad onto the floor and pulled out my phone. Carl laughed. "Calling backup? A nobody like you renting a suite for clout—who could you possibly call?" The guard chimed in. "I'd advise you not to make this a bigger deal than it is. Mrs. Stalin's not someone you want to mess with. You rented a suite for a few days—just leave. Apologize to Carl, and this all goes away. Keep pushing, and those photos you staged? They'll come out. You'll be the one looking stupid." Carl crossed his arms. "Last chance. Kneel, apologize, and hand over the pool access. Otherwise... my wife makes one call to Romano on the South Side, and you're done in Chicago. Romano could crush you with one finger." Romano? The South Side capo who kissed my father's ring last Christmas? I looked up at him, a cold smile spreading across my lips. Right in front of them, I dialed a number I hadn't called in years. "Tell Romano he has twenty minutes to get his ass to the penthouse at Lakeside Grand. Tell him to bring his men, and drag that Pamela clown with him." "And tell him if he's not on his knees, licking the blood off this floor in exactly twenty minutes... he won't live to see another Chicago sunrise."