Chapter 9 - The Last Stand of Frankie Moretti
Frankie didn't die in the Drake Hotel.
In a desperate, frantic move, Frankie pulled a smoke grenade from his coat, yanked the pin, and threw it onto the marble table!
HISSSSS!
Dense grey smoke filled the ballroom as panic erupted! Frankie’s personal bodyguards opened fire into the ceiling, creating chaos as they shoved their boss out through the service exit behind the kitchens.
“Rosa! Down!” Mason yelled, shoving her under the heavy marble table while Dominic and Paul returned fire.
Mason didn't wait for the smoke to clear. He charged through the service door, his Sig Sauer drawn, following the blood trail left by one of Frankie’s wounded bodyguards.
The pursuit led out into the rainy alleyway behind the hotel.
Frankie was scrambling toward a waiting sedan, his shoe slipping against the wet pavement as he yelled at his driver to start the engine.
THWIP!
Mason fired a single shot from his suppressed pistol. The rear tire of the sedan exploded with a loud bang, dropping the vehicle onto its rim.
The driver panicked, threw the car into gear, and sped away down the alley, abandoning his boss on the wet asphalt.
Frankie turned around, panting heavily, his back slammed against the cold brick wall of the alleyway. He pulled his revolver, pointing it with trembling hands at the shadow emerging from the rain.
Mason walked out of the grey mist.
His coat was wet, his grey hair slicked back by the rain, his eyes cold and unyielding as death itself.
“Stay back!” Frankie shrieked, his voice cracking with pathetic terror. “I have ten million in offshore accounts, Mason! I’ll give it all to you! Just let me leave Chicago! I’ll go to Florida! I’ll never come back!”
Mason stopped six feet away from him. He didn't raise his gun. He simply stood there in the pouring rain.
“You threatened a mother,” Mason said, his voice quiet, almost lost beneath the sound of the falling rain. “You sent hitmen into an apartment where four little girls were sleeping.”
“They were just collateral!” Frankie sobbed, tears mixing with the rain on his face. “It was just business!”
“No, Frankie,” Mason whispered, stepping closer until the barrel of his pistol touched the center of Frankie’s forehead. “It was family.”
THWIP.
A single suppressed shot echoed quietly in the alleyway.
Frankie Moretti slid down the wet brick wall, collapsing into a lifeless heap on the pavement.
Mason lowered his weapon, engaged the safety, and tucked it back into his shoulder holster. He looked up at the grey Chicago sky, letting the cold rain wash the soot and blood from his face.
Dominic ran out through the service door, holding an umbrella over Mason’s head.
“It’s done, boss,” Dominic reported. “The police are arriving at the front entrance. Arthur Vance and our legal team are already handing the federal prosecutor the USB drive and the bearer bonds. The Moretti family is finished.”
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Mason turned toward the alley exit.
“Let’s go home,” Mason said softly. “The girls are waiting.”
