Chapter 7 - Blood in the Glass Tower
Thursday night arrived under a blanket of thick, freezing fog rolling off Lake Michigan.
At Terminal 4 of the Chicago docks, six black armored vans belonging to the Falcone cartel pulled into an empty, rusted warehouse. Marco Falcone had sent his entire forty-man strike force, desperate to execute the ambush and salvage his failing reputation after the gala humiliation.
Inside the lead van, Nathaniel Reed sat handcuffed to the interior rail, sweating profusely, his face pale with sheer terror.
“Where are Moretti’s trucks?” the Falcone commander growled, looking out through dark night-vision goggles.
“They... they should be arriving at midnight,” Nathaniel squeaked out, his voice cracking.
At precisely 12:00 AM, the massive metal doors of the warehouse slammed shut from the outside with a deafening, hydraulic roar!
CLANG!
The lights inside the warehouse exploded into blinding white illumination as fifty heavy tactical floodlights flared to life from the rafters!
Before the Falcone men could scream, the surrounding steel shipping containers burst open. Over a hundred heavily armed enforcers from the Moretti syndicate, clad in full body armor and bearing automatic rifles, poured into the space!
At the center of the elevated catwalk stood Marco, Vincent’s lieutenant, holding a megaphone.
“Drop your weapons!” Marco’s voice boomed across the steel rafters. “By order of Don Vincent Moretti, the Falcone cartel’s presence in Chicago is officially terminated!”
Panic erupted inside the warehouse! A few Falcone enforcers attempted to raise their weapons, but a single, disciplined volley of suppressed gunfire systematically disabled every vehicle and disarmed the primary threats within seconds.
The Falcone strike force was completely, undeniably crushed without a single casualty on the Moretti side.
Meanwhile, twenty miles away in the penthouse suite of the Falcone estate, Marco Falcone sat alone at his mahogany desk, frantically trying to reach his commander on an encrypted radio.
Static was the only response.
“Respond! Terminal 4, respond!” Falcone roared into the mic.
The double doors of his private office clicked open softly.
Falcone reached for the heavy revolver inside his desk drawer, but before his fingers could touch the steel, a silent bullet tore through his wrist!
Falcone screamed in pain, clutching his bleeding hand as he fell back into his leather armchair.
Walking into the dimly lit office, holding a sleek black suppressed pistol, was Vincent Moretti.
Beside him walked Marco, who tossed a heavy leather briefcase onto Falcone’s desk. It swung open, revealing the forged shipping ledgers and Nathaniel Reed’s signed confession detailing every illegal wire transfer Falcone had made.
“It’s over, Marco,” Vincent said calmly, stepping up to the desk. He didn't raise his gun again; he simply stood over the old mob boss like an absolute judge.
Falcone panted heavily, staring up at Vincent with bloodshot, defeat-filled eyes. “You... you set this up from the start... the girl... the gala...”
“You thought you could touch my family,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register of cold, absolute finality. “You thought an innocent woman could be used as trash in your war for power. Federal agents are currently raiding every property you own in North America based on the evidence Clara secured.”
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Vincent leaned down, his eyes holding no anger—only the terrifying, empty abyss of an absolute executioner.
“Chicago belongs to the Morettis,” Vincent whispered. “And you are retired.”
