CHAPTER 18 — The Siege of the South Side Warehouse
Midnight descended over the industrial shipping yards of Chicago’s South Side like a heavy, suffocating shroud of black velvet.
A solitary black SUV pulled up silently beside a rusted corrugated steel warehouse that smelled of stale saltwater and motor oil.
Vincent Moretti stepped out of the vehicle, wearing a tactical black turtleneck and heavy combat boots, his broad shoulders carrying the terrifying weight of a king reclaiming his stolen throne.
He didn't bring an army of enforcers this time.
This was personal.
He walked up to the reinforced steel sliding door and kicked it inward with a deafening crash that reverberated through the hollow, cavernous interior.
Well, well, well, if it isn't the retired king of the Midwest, a mocking voice echoed from the dimly lit catwalk above.
Marcus Salvatore stood leaning against the metal railing, holding an automatic submachine gun while six armed thugs stepped out from the shadows with weapons raised.
You should have stayed in your Milwaukee penthouse playing family man, Moretti, Salvatore sneered, raising his weapon.
Now you die in the dirt like a common dog.
Vincent didn't flinch.
He didn't raise his hands or offer a plea for mercy.
Instead, a dark, chilling smile touched the corners of his mouth.
You missed your shot at the botanical garden, Salvatore, Vincent said, his voice echoing smoothly across the concrete floor.
And in our world, if you miss the king, you don't get a second chance.
Before Salvatore could pull his trigger, Vincent drew his sidearm with blinding, lethal speed, firing three consecutive shots that extinguished the overhead halogen lights, plunging the warehouse into absolute darkness.
Chaos erupted inside the cavernous space as gunfire lit up the night like a storm of falling stars.
Shouts of panic mixed with the sharp cracks of automatic fire, but to Vincent Moretti, the darkness was an old, familiar friend.
He moved silently through the labyrinth of shipping crates like a ghost of vengeance, neutralizing the armed thugs one by one with calculated precision.
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Within four minutes, the warehouse fell completely silent, save for the sound of dripping water and heavy, terrified breathing.
Vincent stepped out from the shadows at the base of the metal staircase, his combat boots echoing loudly as he climbed toward the catwalk where Salvatore cowered in sheer terror.
