Chapter 4 - The Battle for the Docks
The Chicago night was swallowed by a relentless downpour as a convoy of five blacked-out SUVs tore through the industrial sectors of the South Side. Inside the lead vehicle, Vincent sat in the back seat, his face illuminated only by the occasional flash of lightning. Beside him, Dr. Harris was finishing an intravenous administration of the crude antidote he had synthesized in his private lab over the last hour.
"It will stabilize your heart rate, Vincent," Dr. Harris said, pulling the needle free and applying a piece of medical tape. "But you are pushing your body to its absolute limits. The digitalis had caused minor myocardial inflammation. If your blood pressure spikes too high, you could experience an aneurysm."
"I’ll rest when Carmine Falcone is buried," Vincent replied, flexing his fingers. The strength was fully back. The internal warmth of pure rage was keeping the synthetic frost at bay.
He looked down at his phone. A secure live-feed camera from the third-floor master suite showed Elena and Lily. Lily was curled up on the massive velvet couch, her Cubs cap resting on the coffee table, her head in her mother's lap as Elena read to her from the sea creature book. They looked completely safe, isolated from the storm of violence that was about to break over the city.
Vincent closed the app, his heart hardening. He had something to fight for now. Not just a legacy, not just a pile of dirty money, but a little girl who deserved a father who could keep her safe.
"We’re two minutes out from the Cicero terminal, Boss," Marco said from the front passenger seat, checking the chamber of his automatic rifle. "Dominic’s boys have already surrounded the perimeter. The Falcone advance team has three semi-trucks parked inside the main bay, unloading tactical gear and heavy contraband. They’re setting up a permanent staging ground."
"No survivors, Marco," Vincent said. "I want New York to understand that crossing the state line is an automatic death sentence."
The SUVs swung wide, turning off their headlights as they rolled into the dark, gravel-strewn yard of the Moretti Logistics Terminal. The massive corrugated iron warehouse stood like a monolith against the stormy sky.
The moment the vehicles gritted to a halt, the doors flew open. Twenty of Vincent’s elite soldiers poured out, moving with military precision through the driving rain.
A Falcone look-out standing near the loading dock didn't even have time to raise his weapon before a silenced round from Marco’s rifle dropped him into the gravel.
Vincent stepped out of the vehicle, holding a heavy chrome .45 caliber pistol—the same weapon he had used to secure his position as Don a decade ago. He walked through the rain, his trench coat blowing in the wind, looking less like a recovered patient and more like the grim reaper itself.
They breached the side doors of the warehouse with a flashbang.
The interior of the warehouse exploded into a chaos of gunfire and shattering glass. The Falcone soldiers, caught completely off-guard, scrambled for cover behind stacks of wooden pallets and shipping containers. They had been told Vincent Moretti was a dying invalid and that Chicago would surrender without a fight.
They had been lied to.
Vincent moved through the crossfire with a terrifying lack of fear. He fired with rhythmic, lethal precision, dropping two Falcone shooters who tried to flank Marco from a raised catwalk.
"Secure the trucks!" Vincent shouted over the roar of the automatic weapons.
He advanced toward the back offices of the warehouse, where the Falcone regional commander, a notorious enforcer named Sal 'The Anvil' Maroni, was trying to shred documents.
Vincent kicked the office door off its hinges.
Maroni, a massive man with a scarred face, spun around, drawing a sawed-off shotgun. But Vincent was faster. A single round from his .45 tore through Maroni’s right shoulder, sending the shotgun clattering to the floor. Maroni collapsed against the desk, groaning in agony.
Vincent walked into the room, his boots clicking on the linoleum floor. He stood over the bleeding enforcer, his face expressionless.
"Vincent... please," Maroni gasped, clutching his shattered shoulder. "I was just taking orders. Carmine said you were done. He said the girl had you wrapped around her finger."
"The girl was an amateur," Vincent said, pulling a chair over and sitting down across from the bleeding man. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Where is the rest of the New York contingent, Sal? I know Carmine didn't just send thirty men to Cicero. Where’s the main force?"
Maroni hesitated, his teeth grinding in pain.
Vincent reached down, grabbed Maroni’s broken shoulder, and squeezed.
Maroni screamed, a high-pitched sound of pure agony that echoed through the warehouse. "Alright! Alright! The docks! Pier 42! They have a cargo container ship arriving from New Jersey at 3:30 a.m. It’s carrying two hundred soldiers and enough heavy military ordnance to take over the whole city council. Carmine’s son, Mikey, is leading the drop!"
Vincent released the shoulder, standing up and wiping a stray drop of blood from his tailored suit jacket. He looked down at Maroni with absolute disgust.
"Thank you for the information, Sal."
"You... you’re gonna let me go?" Maroni wheezed.
Vincent turned toward the door. "Marco. Clean this up."
"No! Vincent, you said—" Maroni’s scream was cut short by a single shot from Marco as Vincent walked back out into the rain.
The Cicero terminal was secured. Ten Falcone men were dead, the rest captured. But the real threat was twenty minutes away at the Chicago harbor. A small army was about to land on his shores.
May you like
Vincent climbed back into the SUV, his phone ringing again. He picked it up.
"Boss," the voice on the other end belonged to the guard stationed outside the third-floor master suite back at the mansion. "We have a security breach. Someone didn't come from the outside. They came from the tunnels. Vanessa Vale... she escaped the cellar."
