Chapter 6 - Fire at the Packing Plant
The abandoned meat-packing plant on 4th and Halsted loomed against the ink-black Chicago skyline like a decaying cathedral of industrial ruin. Its broken windows gaped like empty eye sockets, and the rusted metal siding groaned loudly beneath the freezing gusts of wind blowing off the river.
Inside the sprawling, cavernous main floor, a dozen armed mercenaries belonging to the Moretti syndicate huddled around a pair of industrial space heaters, smoking cigarettes and laughing over crude jokes. In the center of the room, sitting on a battered leather sofa beneath a flickering fluorescent light, was Vince Moretti—a heavyset, brutal enforcer wearing a flashy gold chain and a shearling leather jacket.
“Cross is getting soft,” Vince laughed, taking a long pull from a bottle of bourbon. “Keeping housekeepers and brats in the mansion? Guy’s lost his mind. Once we hit the main vault tomorrow night, the Cross empire is ours.”
“I wouldn't be so sure about that, Vince,” a cold, flat voice echoed from the shadows near the loading dock.
Vince froze, his glass halfway to his mouth. The mercenaries instantly scrambled for their rifles, spinning around to face the darkness.
From the gloom of the shadows, Damian Cross stepped into the flickering light.
He wasn't alone. Behind him, emerging from the rusted corridors like ghosts of vengeance, were twenty of his most lethal enforcers, armed with suppressed carbines and tactical gear.
“Cross!” Vince snarled, dropping his bourbon bottle as it shattered against the concrete floor. He scrambled backward over the sofa, screaming at his men. “Kill him! Light him up!”
The warehouse erupted into a deafening roar of gunfire.
Muzzle flashes strobed like lightning through the cavernous space, lighting up the dust and rust in violent bursts. Bullets pinged off the concrete pillars and shattered old machinery, but Damian didn't flinch. Moving with the cold, calculated precision of an apex predator, he raised his Sig Sauer and fired twice.
Crack. Crack.
Two Moretti enforcers dropped instantly, their rifles clattering against the floor.
Viktor and the Cross enforcers pressed the attack with overwhelming tactical superiority, sweeping through the aisles, neutralizing the Moretti mercenaries one by one with surgical efficiency. The syndicate thugs had been arrogant, expecting an easy payday. They had underestimated the wrath of a crime boss whose home had been violated.
Within four minutes, the gunfire died down to a few scattered groans.
Vince Moretti tried to crawl toward a side exit near the loading dock, desperately reaching for a nickel-plated revolver tucked into his waistband.
Before his fingers could wrap around the grip, a heavy tactical boot slammed down onto his hand, pinning it hard against the concrete.
Vince screamed, looking up.
Damian stood over him, his face cast in shadow, his pistol pointed directly between Vince’s eyes.
“You touched my estate,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a register that made the freezing warehouse feel like absolute zero. “You terrified a three-year-old child who likes to color with crayons.”
“I… I was just following orders from the Don!” Vince sputtered, blood trickling from a graze on his forehead. “It was business! Just business!”
“Business?” Damian asked softly. He lowered the barrel of his pistol, pressing it hard against Vince’s chest. “Let me show you what my business looks like.”
May you like
He fired once into Vince’s shoulder, eliciting a blood-curdling shriek of agony that echoed off the metal walls. Then, without a word of further negotiation, Damian signaled to Viktor.
“Tie him up, throw him in the trunk of the lead car, and drop him at the front steps of the Moretti family’s Madison Street compound,” Damian ordered, holstering his weapon. “Tell them the war they wanted has arrived. And tomorrow, I’m coming for the Don.”
