Chapter 3 - The Logic of the Iron Yard
The air inside the abandoned locomotive repair shop smelled of old grease, wet rust, and the metallic tang of unspent adrenaline. Thirty men stood in a loose semi-circle around Dawson and Sienna, their faces dark with coal dust and hatred. Thomas Rossi stood at the front, his heavy tool belt clinking against his thigh, his eyes fixed on Dawson’s tailored gray suit with absolute contempt.
“Your old man thinks he can just delete ten years of annuity payments because he wants to build a casino in Cook County?” Rossi spat, stepping forward until he was three feet from Dawson. “We built these tracks, boy. We know where the bodies are buried under the gravel. You tell Vittorio that if the money isn't in the accounts by five o'clock, the entire rail network from here to Gary goes dark.”
Dawson didn't move. He stood with his hands loosely tucked into his trouser pockets, his posture relaxed, almost lazy. But Sienna could see the twitch in his right shoulder—the muscle memory of a man who knew exactly how many seconds it would take to break Rossi’s larynx with his bare hands.
“The money’s gone, Tom,” Dawson said smoothly, his voice carrying an icy weight that lowered the temperature in the room by ten degrees. “It’s already cleared through the offshore accounts in Cyprus. You strike, and my father takes the rail cars off the lines and replaces them with independent trucking fleets from Ohio within forty-eight hours. You’ll be sitting on your porch watching empty trains roll past your house while your union fund goes into federal receivership.”
A murmur of angry panic rippled through the crowd of workers. Several men stepped forward, their crowbars rising.
“You arrogant little piece of shit,” Rossi roared, his face turning a deep, dangerous purple. “You think you’re untouchable because of your name? Your father isn't here today!”
Rossi swung his arm back, the heavy iron wrench in his hand moving in a lethal arc straight toward Dawson’s temple.
Sienna didn't think. She didn't calculate the risk or remember her rent or her father’s debts. She stepped between them, her leather portfolio rising like a clumsy shield.
Crack.
The iron wrench slammed into the thick leather binder, the force of the blow telegraphing through Sienna’s wrists and sending a sharp, sickening pain up her forearms. She stumbled backward, her heels catching on an oil slick, her body tilting toward the concrete floor.
Before she could hit the ground, a massive, iron-hard arm caught her around the waist.
Dawson pulled her back against his chest with a force that knocked the wind from her lungs. His face was no longer bored. The lazy indifference had evaporated, replaced by a pure, blinding ferocity that made him look less like a man and more like an ancient predator whose territory had been violated.
“Don't touch her,” Dawson roared, his voice shaking the rusted iron girders above their heads.
In a movement so fast the eye could barely track it, Dawson stepped forward, his left hand catching Rossi by the throat and lifting the two-hundred-pound man six inches off the floor. His right fist came down like a sledgehammer into Rossi’s ribs.
Crack.
Rossi let out a choked gasp as his ribs gave way, his wrench clattering to the floor. Dawson didn't drop him. He held him against the brick wall, his fingers sinking into the man’s flesh, his eyes burning with a dark, manic light that looked like pure insanity.
“Dawson! Stop!” Sienna screamed, her arms wrapping around his massive bicep, her fingers digging into his gray suit jacket. “Stop! Look at me! You’ll kill him!”
“He tried to hit you,” Dawson growled, his head turning slowly toward her, his breath coming in ragged, animal gasps.
“I’m fine! The binder caught it!” She shoved her face into his field of vision, forcing his dark, bloodshot eyes to lock onto hers. “If you kill him here, the union goes to the feds, and your father loses everything. Remember the strategy! Look at me, Dawson. Drop him.”
The silence stretched for five agonizing seconds. The other workers stood frozen, terrified by the sheer speed and brutality of the younger Moretti.
Slowly, the dark, manic light in Dawson’s eyes began to recede, replaced by that strange, analytical curiosity he had shown in the car. His fingers loosened. Rossi collapsed to the floor in a heap, coughing and clutching his side.
Dawson didn't look back at the workers. He reached down, picked up Sienna’s ruined leather portfolio from the dirt, and handed it to her. His knuckles were bleeding where he had struck the brick wall behind Rossi’s head.
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“The Rosemont margins,” Dawson said, his voice dropping back into that gravelly rasp as he looked down at Rossi. “We take five percent off the casino development. It goes back into the union annuity by Friday. And the medical grant for your daughter in Evanston is locked for the next ten years. No deductions. No conditions.”
He turned on his heel, his hand catching Sienna’s elbow with a grip that was firm but surprisingly careful. “Let’s go, Brooks. This place smells like cheap grease.”
