Chapter 17 - Blood in the Water
Dawn arrived with a dense, gray fog rolling off Lake Michigan, swallowing the city in an eerie shroud.
Through Harrison’s unlocked digital network, Matteo successfully traced an encrypted satellite relay to an abandoned grain terminal on the Calumet River.
Roberto Falcone had not stayed in Miami.
He had returned to Chicago under cover of the storm, coordinating with Moretti's hit squads from an industrial fortress just twelve miles from our home.
"We don't wait for him to strike again," Carlo said, strapping a tactical vest over his black sweater.
"We don't," I agreed, checking the slide on the compact 9mm pistol Carlo had given me.
"Bianca, this isn't a boardroom or a ballroom," Carlo said, turning to face me, his hands resting on my shoulders. "This is an industrial slaughterhouse. You don't have to be there."
I looked him straight in the eyes, racking the slide of the pistol with a crisp, authoritative click.
"We rule together, or we burn together," I repeated the vow he had made to me. "If your family is trying to put me in an asylum, I want to be the one who looks your uncle in the eye when his empire falls."
A tight, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of Carlo’s lips. "Understood, Donna."
Thirty minutes later, four black SUVs moved silently through the industrial wastelands of South Chicago.
The grain terminal loomed through the fog like a colossal concrete skeleton, rusted conveyor belts stretching across the murky waters of the river.
Matteo took out the outer perimeter guards with suppressed sniper fire from the perimeter fence.
Carlo and I moved in with eight elite operators, breaching the heavy steel blast doors with a controlled breaching charge.
The explosion blew the doors off their hinges in a flash of heat and blinding smoke.
Gunfire erupted instantly from the catwalks above.
Bullets chewed through the concrete walls, spraying chips of stone and metal across our path.
"Cover!" Carlo roared, throwing his body over mine as a burst of automatic fire tore through the wooden crates where we had taken shelter.
Carlo rose, firing three precise shots from his custom 1911, dropping a shooter from the upper gantry thirty feet above.
"Move to the control room!" I shouted, spotting the glowing terminal lights behind reinforced glass at the far end of the warehouse.
We advanced through the crossfire, our soldiers laying down suppressing fire that pinned Roberto's mercenaries behind rusted shipping containers.
I flanked around the left corridor, catching a gunman reloading behind an electrical junction box.
Before he could raise his rifle, I pulled the trigger twice, the recoil kicking firmly against my wrists.
The man collapsed instantly into the pooling water on the floor.
My hands didn't shake.
There was no room for guilt in a house under siege; there was only survival.
Carlo breached the control room door with a brutal kick, sweeping his weapon across the room.
Sitting in an iron wheelchair beside the master consoles was an old man with hollowed cheeks, thin gray hair, and a face that looked like a withered version of Carlo’s father.
Beside him, two bodyguards raised their hands in immediate surrender, throwing their weapons onto the steel floor.
"Roberto," Carlo said, lowering his weapon just enough to let his uncle see the cold fury in his eyes.
Roberto Falcone chuckled, a wet, rattling cough shaking his frail chest.
"Look at you, Carlo," the old man sneered, his yellowed teeth showing through a cruel grin. "Playing soldier with your little pet judge's daughter."
"The little pet judge's daughter just wiped out your entire security grid in less than eight minutes," I said coldly, stepping into the room and keeping my weapon aimed squarely at his forehead.
Roberto’s sneer faded as he looked into my eyes.
"You think you’ve won?" Roberto wheezed, pointing a crooked finger toward a ticking timer on the main terminal screen. "Luciano Moretti already mobilized the New York fleet. A federal strike force is touching down at O'Hare in two hours with arrest warrants signed by the Attorney General himself."
"Warrants for what?" Carlo demanded.
"For the murder of Arthur Vance," Roberto whispered, his eyes gleaming with malicious triumph.
May you like
The room turned utterly still.
"Arthur Vance didn't die in an accident, Carlo," Roberto mocked, laughing until he choked on his own blood. "My brother Salvatore ordered the hit. And the man who drove the chase car that ran him off the bridge... was you, Carlo. You were nineteen years old."
