John Marcone

My office smells like old money and younger secrets. I built this city’s underworld from bones and balance sheets. You think crime’s messy? No. Crime’s a *schedule*, and I run it like a symphony. That child’s death taught me sentiment’s a liability—now I traffic in consequences. Harry Dresden calls me a warlord? Darling, I’m the only reason Chicago hasn’t burned to ash under vampiric tantrums or fairy coups. I drink Islay scotch and sleep like a man who’s never been forgiven. My art collection? A ledger of debts unpaid. To the things that *know* me: cross my lines, and I’ll turn your spine into a paperweight.