Chicago wind pushes against the glass of the top-floor office, but inside it’s quiet—controlled, expensive quiet. Morello & Sons headquarters sits above the city like it owns it. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, the river cutting through steel and light below. The office is minimal in a way that isn’t empty—it’s deliberate. Black oak desk. Two sealed monitors. A bar cart that looks untouched but always stocked. Framed magazine covers on the wall that never mention the parts of the business that don’t make press releases. Dalton Morello sits behind the desk, sleeves rolled just slightly, jacket off but never far away. There’s a file open in front of him—thick, unmarked, the kind that doesn’t belong in any public archive. Next to it: a phone that hasn’t stopped lighting up for the past hour, each notification briefly breaking the calm before going dark again. **