Chapter 7 - The Reckoning at the Warehouse
The South Side warehouse was a massive, cavernous structure of corrugated steel and concrete, standing near the edge of the shipping canal.
Inside, the air was freezing, lit only by three industrial floodlights hanging from the high steel trusses overhead.
Silvio Moretti stood near a row of heavy wooden crates, flanked by four of his personal bodyguards. He wore his thick mink-collared coat, smoking his silver-tipped cigar, impatiently checking his gold pocket watch.
"Where the hell is he?" Silvio grumbled to his lead enforcer. "It's eight-fifteen. Dario calls an emergency meeting and then keeps us standing in the cold like street soldiers?"
The heavy steel roll-up door at the front of the warehouse began to rise with a loud, mechanical screech.
A single black sedan pulled into the building, its high beams cutting through the gloom, shining directly into Silvio’s eyes.
The headlights shut off.
Dario stepped out of the vehicle. He walked alone into the center of the warehouse, his long trench coat unbuttoned, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
Behind him, four black vans pulled in, blocking the entrance completely. Dozens of heavy Montesi soldiers emerged from the shadows, their submachine guns pointed silently at Silvio’s men.
Silvio’s bodyguards reached instinctively for their weapons, but Silvio held up a hand, his face paling as he realized he had walked into a trap.
"Dario," Silvio called out, trying to keep his voice steady. "What is the meaning of this? Why are your men pointing weapons at my escort?"
Dario stopped ten feet away. The light caught his face—hard, dark, and devoid of any human mercy.
"Four years ago, Silvio," Dario spoke, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls like a bell tolling in a graveyard. "My brother Julian died on Lake Shore Drive."
Silvio’s eyes flicked sideways for a fraction of a second. "We all remember that tragedy, Dario. It was a terrible loss for the family."
"I visited Old Sal in Gary two hours ago," Dario said softly.
The cigar slipped from Silvio’s fingers, hitting the wet concrete floor with a tiny shower of orange sparks.
The four bodyguards behind Silvio tensed, but before they could draw their arms, a volley of suppressed gunfire echoed through the warehouse.
Pfft-pfft-pfft.
All four of Silvio’s men collapsed onto the concrete, instantly silenced by Montesi marksmen positioned in the rafters above.
Silvio stumbled backward, his back hitting a wooden crate, his hands raised frantically in the air.
"Dario! Listen to me!" Silvio shrieked, his composure completely shattering. "It wasn't personal! It was business! Julian was going to ruin everything! He was going to split the family! He was weak!"
Dario walked forward, slowly, deliberately, pulling a matte-black pistol from his shoulder holster.
"Julian wasn't weak, Silvio," Dario said, racking the slide with a sharp, metallic CLACK. "Julian was better than all of us. He wanted a life outside the mud and the blood. He wanted to raise his daughter in the sunshine."
"Dario! Please! I helped your father build this empire!" Silvio wept, dropping to his knees on the cold concrete, clutching his hands together. "I’m your uncle's brother! We share blood!"
Dario stood over him, looking down with cold, clinical disgust.
"You don't share my blood, Silvio," Dario whispered, pressing the cold steel barrel against the center of Silvio’s forehead. "My blood is sitting in a room on the second floor of my house, learning how to read."
BANG.
The single gunshot echoed through the vast steel cavern, then died away into absolute silence.
Dario stepped back, lowering his weapon, not bothering to look at the body on the floor.
He turned to Matteo, who was standing quietly near the sedan.
"Clean this place," Dario commanded flatly. "Seize all of Silvio’s properties, assets, and shipping contracts by midnight. Reassign his soldiers to the North Side captains."
"Yes, Boss," Matteo bowed. "And the Cleveland family?"
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"Tell them Silvio died of a sudden heart condition," Dario said, wiping a speck of dust from his sleeve. "And tell them if they have any questions about his estate, they can come to Chicago and ask my niece."
He stepped back into the sedan, closing the door against the cold night, eager to leave the darkness behind.
